


Sanctuary

by moriamithril



Category: Pedro Pascal - Fandom, The Great Wall (2017)
Genre: AU, F/M, Forbidden love trope, No Canon Used, Smut, almost
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:40:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26026624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moriamithril/pseuds/moriamithril
Summary: A clandestine love affair with a mercenary blossoms into a dangerous fight for independence from an arranged marriage.
Relationships: Pero Tovar (The Great Wall)/Reader, Pero Tovar - Relationship
Comments: 11
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

A blue brume hung in the air when you stirred, Pero intentionally waking you by kissing the column of your nose. 

“Please, don’t leave,” you murmured.

You reached your arm lazily and thread his hair through your fingers. 

“You know I must,” he answered gruffly. “The sisters will send a doctor if you feign illness any longer. And I may travel west again; the knights seek mercenaries. There are insurgents…” he trailed off, sighing deeply. “Our company will be needed soon.”

The letter from your mother seemed to hum from your bureau as an idea surged to the forefront of your mind.

“Why not seek knighthood?” you whispered quickly, “It may be low-ranking, but the closest to nobility -“

Pero sat up abruptly, and he tugged your sheets with him; you rose, your nakedness blurry in the very early dawn. 

“And what good will that do us?” he hissed, and as his eyebrows furrowed, his silver scar gleaming against the charcoal outlines of his face. “ _You_ are better off being knighted; that would eliminate any suitors. They cannot marry. I would rather fight for you than stand on the side.”

Scoffing quietly, your face twisted with the warning of tears.

“If only I could,” you said, your words breaking already. “I only meant - I wish to be able to associate with you, to speak to you within the streets or halls without raising suspicions; perhaps if I spoke to my father -“

Pero gnashed his teeth. “If you as much disturb the soil within your father’s mind, let alone plant the seed of our affair, he will have my head. So be it; I would rather die than see you wed to some inferior _boy_ -“

“Pero,” you whispered, apprehensively placing a palm on his arm in an attempt to soothe him. “I just,” you swallowed, “my family has planned to visit me this spring. They arrive in a fortnight.”

Turning his head to look at you head on, his breathing began to quicken. “I see.”

“If you are angry at me, then you are aiming -“

“I am not angry with you,” he interrupted sharply, and pressed himself off the bed. You suddenly felt weightless, abandoned on what was a cloud nine of crisp white bliss and passion, now a greying mist, threatening rain. 

“You are hurt,” you murmured, drawing the sheets to your neck. 

“You know why they come. You are already too old to be unwed; your father will not leave this country without a son in-law.” You watch him as he dresses stiffly in the growing light, his body the darkest object in the room besides your drying painting.

“Then take me from here,” you demanded. 

“Don’t be so childish,” Pero chided, and he stalked toward the bed and grasped your chin. “I _will_ not run from this.”

Nodding softly, you enveloped your hand around his, bending his wrist towards your mouth to kiss it. 

“Please let me visit you,” you whispered frantically, “we will likely be safer there than you sneaking in -“

“My dwellings are no place for a lady of your rank,” he muttered, fastening his belted and sheathed sword to his hips. “I would not dream of subjecting you to it. Be patient, fireheart,” he pleaded, leaning down to kiss you. 

“I am staying past midnight mass in a few day’s time, if you would meet me,” you said, hugging your knees as you watched him preparing to leave. 

He huffed out an impatient laugh, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. “Are you not afraid of being caught in the church? Each time we meet there, we increase the chance.”

“I don’t care,” you said defiantly, your face hardening. 

“I do,” Pero stormed, his voice a hushed threat. “I am willing to sacrifice whatever it may take as to not lose you. Even if that means waiting; in battle, you must know the right moment to strike -”

“And how long can this go on? One of us, both of us - we need to do something -“ 

“You think I do not know the gravity of our situation? Hmm?” Pero dropped to his knees in front of the bed, taking your head in both of his hands. “Do not think I don’t know what your father will do upon arriving. Do not think I don’t realize I will have to watch you be passed from suitor to suitor, like coin or cattle.” Pero’s nose crinkled in anger, his voice quavering slightly. “And yet I will not endanger you or subject you to a life below you -“

“Spare me of such talk,” you spat back, waving a hand between your bodies, “I would rather live in squalor with you -“

“And what? Watch our children starve? Burn furniture to keep warm? Is that what you want?” He shook you slightly, and your heart felt like it would beat from your chest in alarm; he was speaking louder now, and surely the rest of the convent was beginning to wake. “Tender girl,” he said, his tone almost condescending, “you do not know what it is truly like. I will not be your death sentence.”

Tears pooling in your eyes, he appeared even more hazy. “I know what happened to you. To your family,” you said. “That was nearly thirty years ago; life is not so bleak as it once was. Farms are flourishing, Christians hold the north now, and regardless,” you held your chin high, “I am not afraid to be poor.”

“Mi Cielo,” he sighed, hovering around the door. “I cannot leave you like this. Let us not fret over what has not yet happened.” 

It seemed so unlike Pero to steady himself like this; your defined roles were reversing, it was you who anchored him usually. You knew he was protecting you.

Pressing your lips together, you nodded again, forcing a smile. “Come and find me.”

“I always do.” 

You waited for his footsteps to retreat before scurrying over to the open doors of the balcony, knowing his figure would appear as a shadow as he made his way back through the city, towards the north end. 

Pero was right; your father would not leave until you were betrothed. 

Staring beyond the courtyard, towards the sea and the sun beginning to materialize on the horizon, you swore to it - to the birds coaxing the world awake, to the church that only seemed to debilitate you - it would be Pero Tovar, or it would be no one or nothing at all.

~

Quickly you dressed, carefully stashed your painting behind your folding screen, and removed your bedding; dragging the sheets, you shook them out over the balcony with hopes to erase any remaining evidence of Pero’s stay. You wanted to wrap yourself in them, cast yourself inside of what he left behind.

Sure to place them neatly folded next to your tray of dishes outside of your door, you left the chambermaids a letter urging them to leave your new linens in their place to avoid catching your cold. Hosting a man - a mercenary, nonetheless - in your rooms within the convent was brazen, but not an indulgence you were willing to part with; to maintain it, you would take precautions where you could.

The sisters noted your improvement at breakfast; after sulking, waiting for Pero to return, you surely looked refreshed. 

“A new life breathed into you,” one of them praised, ignorant to how right she was. 

And yet instead of distraught like you felt in his absence, you now felt restless in his return. Even painting within the massive halls was not enough to lose yourself in; you could only think of when you would next see him, wondering if he would meet you after Mass.

You were confident he would.

The rest of the week, meals spent chattering with the others, trudged along with irritability. Mass was excruciating as you waited for the pews to clear, hoping, praying that no one else felt the need to remain longer as you sunk to the shadows behind the confessional box. You hoped no one else sought a personal audience with God in his house.

You stood in place when the building emptied, the flickering candles your only company as their dances ebbed before crescendoing again, their shadows your only witnesses.

Images of your last time with Pero flashed through your mind; his arms caging you beneath him, his words of passion inking themselves onto your heart. You loved him; you have loved him, and yet you feared to speak it aloud. You felt it would leave you at a crossroads with no familiar to guide you down the path most likely to nurture your declarations. Instead, you waited for him. 

You always waited for him, as you did now; your knees pressed against the wooden hassocks as your hands remained propped on the pew in front of you, folded together with nothing inside them but burning, sinful urges to run themselves over Pero’s entire body in worship. You thanked God for the passion, for a good enough reason to burn for eternity. 

Every nerve stood alert when the echo of heavy footsteps ricocheted off the eves of the room. 

It was not unheard of for anyone to pass through the threshold into the holy place, to speak to Christ whether it be between midday errands or while the rest of the world slept. You were only two bodies with a solitary desire as he walked down the aisle, selecting a seat in the same row as you on the other side. 

Your mind conjured evil wishes as he knelt as you did, his armor clanking loudly as he nestled in place. 

“Will you leave for the south soon?” Your voice was a hushed plea and you did not crane your neck to look at him, only letting your eyes dart toward him. 

“Things are quiet,” he murmured, his dark voice reverberating in the cavernous room. “Our captain will divide the company; some will travel south, others will stay and guard. Many visitors arrive now that the trees are in bloom.”

“Of course,” you replied softly, taking advantage of your position and praying that he stayed. 

“I have been thinking of you,” he whispered, so quietly that you were certain you only managed to hear him due to the endless silence surrounding you, the walls seeming to carry each sound. “Perhaps I might come see you before your family arrives.”

Your insides belted with nerves; their arrival felt like an oncoming storm. In one way or another, everything would change once they came. 

“Two days from now; I will meet you in the courtyard as usual. I will be granted a day of rest, and do not expect to be disturbed the following morning.”

The distance between you, even within one room as the only souls present, felt like leagues, yet your body was tethered to his, each slight movement he made jerked you closer. 

“Pero,” you breathed, finally turning yourself towards him on the other side of the aisle. There you were, under the same roof, the same heaven, with the same hell beneath you but on wildly different ends of the earth. “I cannot share this empty space and not touch you, please. Even for a moment.”

He bolted upright and you rose from your knees, sitting on the pew as he bridged the gap between you. Kneeling in front of your legs, his calloused hand slid over your cheek as his fingers wove into your hair and he pulled you into a kiss. 

His mouth engulfed yours, warm and hungry and your body roared to life against his touch. Eagerly your hands raked through his mussed, dark mop of hair as you hummed delicately, too grateful for him to keep it inside of you. 

You began to draw your skirts to the apex of your thighs for him, his own hand following your lead and parting your legs gently, his fingers hooking beneath your stocking as he dug into your flesh, too enamored to help himself. He brought his hand further up and his palm flattened against your core, the pad of his thumb pressing into your aching clit. 

Holding your breath, you gripped the seat at your sides and rocked against him, not breaking away from his demanding gaze. His black eyes appeared torch-lit as the candlelight behind him seemed to rage. 

Two fingers sunk knuckle-deep into your heat and he held your head in place to muffle your cry against his mouth, tongue sweeping against yours. 

“You must trust me, do you understand, cielo?” His breath pooled against your lips, your breath coming in short gasps as his fingers unraveled you, like a spool spinning as he pulled the thread. 

Your hips arched, chest heaving towards the painted ceiling above as he dragged his tongue over what part of your chest was exposed to the world, as if the hollow of your throat was forbidden. 

“This belongs to you,” you said, your voice harsh and ragged. 

The time that had passed since he left your rooms coupled with his winter-long absence left you sensitive and desperate; you felt your body building up against his thumb, swelling as obscene noises from between your legs grew louder than ever. 

“Only I can bring you to these heights, isn’t that right, cielo? Up where you belong? You writhe beneath no one but me,” he growled.

His eyes reflected wild flames, surely burning holes into your own as he steadied his hand, not faltering for a moment as he sensed your climax. The hand gripping your hair firmly was trembling, as he so often did in the heat of passion, from arousal or tension you did not know. He almost seemed to move with you, and when your legs began to spasm, your body caving in on itself, you pressed your leg between his, grinding against his length. 

His face screwed up as he twitched against it, and you felt heat pool beneath the fabric guarding you from him. Pulling you into another messy kiss, your body relented, giving up as you gripped his shoulders, holding on as to not slip away. 

His hand withdrew from your heat the moment your pulsing died away, and you were overwhelmed with the scent of your own pleasure as he cradled your head, walking on his knees between your legs as you sprawled out for him, embracing him. His kisses were deliberate in that moment, possessive and threatening. 

“And I belong to you,” he swore, his voice purposeful as it pierced the tainted air. 

~

In the days that past you found yourself not enjoying your usual fervor for the season of rebirth; normally you felt a sweet anxiety as you waited for the flowers to open, their inexorable persistence rewarding the world for its patience. Instead this year brought so many hurried changes, and their uncertainty angered you. Sitting through sermons, priests so righteously certain that they spoke the words of the Lord, reinforcing his promise to cast you into lakes of eternal flame for the accidental crime of daring to love. 

You cursed the Virgin silently, not bothering to ask forgiveness for your resentment; she, the original liar, denying passion for the sake of piousness, paving the way for the rest of her sex to long for their true lovers in quiet desperation as they were matched based on blood lines and pockets, rather than what the heart coveted. Even when your brushes beckoned you to recreate the tidal waves that so poignantly mimicked your own mind, you were expected to honor the Mother instead. She was not your mother; she did not nurture you from her breast or cradle you in her arms. She only tore your ties to Pero asunder, the heaves in the thawing ground deepening in the promise of renewal. How badly you wanted the pliable ground for your own hands to turn, to write poetry from a window spilling in sunlight, to tend to your own hearth without the prying eyes of those who would turn their backs on you in a heartbeat if they knew how you lived and how you loved.

“You must be elated; to be married?,” squealed one of your painting companions on the afternoon before you planned to sneak Pero in your rooms.

The day was dull and unseasonably cold, and your woolen cloak did not feel adequate within the walls of the cathedral you were painting in, too dark for your eyes and not even the burgundy tapestries enough to stir warmth. 

You shrugged, blotting your brush into an angry red blend; your bishop was the color of blood, more devil-like than saintly. “What is so sacred about a bond with a stranger? How does one consider it a bond but only by ink and paper?” You immediately shut your eyes with regret, biting your tongue a moment too late. “Forgive me,” you said quietly, furrowing your brows in response to her look of concern. 

“Of course,” she said, forcing a tight smile. “Nerves are to be expected.” She turned herself towards her canvas, her bearing ending the conversation.

~

Pero was late that evening, and you spent too long lingering in the pall of darkness waiting, always waiting, lurking like a thief. The analogies that strung together in your mind only perpetuated your blooming animosity.

When he appeared, he ushered you behind a pillar, kissing you hard. “My duties kept me from being timely,” he explained against your lips, and you gripped his forearm as you led the way back to your rooms. Though he rarely divulged detail, you knew Pero lived outside of the village amongst the peasants; he indeed had his own life to tend to. How you wished to help him, to share a true life instead of being told what to paint and where to go and how to think.

“Never mind,” you replied, feeling your hostility for the world recede. “You’re here. That is all that matters.”

~

You laid on top of him, the heat of your skin pressing against him as he still sheathed you. The embrace you shared was pregnant with unspoken turmoil; this was likely the last time he would be able to stay with you for the foreseeable future, not with your mother fluttering about, poking her nose in. Not with your father’s loyal guards, some you’ve known your entire life, roaming the streets between the castle and the convent.

“Each night when I dream, it ends with bloodshed,” you confessed against his neck, burrowing your body into his. “I always considered myself imaginative, yet I cannot fathom an auspicious outcome for what is to come.”

Pero continued his gentle strokes along your bag, dragged his fingertips between your shoulder blades, but he made a subtle movement, hugging you tighter to his chest. 

“We are constantly honing our skills, are we not?” he murmured against your hair. “My sword never lays on its side too long, lest my arms forget how to wield. Your brushes are never dry for long, your next work of art always exceeding the last.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, raising your chin and looking at him in the eyes. His beautiful scar, the one he thought made him brutish and mean, to you was a crack of silver - priceless in value and character. 

“You are a shining woman,” he said, pulling you into the cook of his arm even tighter. “Like the sun; so warm and promising. Use this time to execute how well you are able to see the good in everything. The sweetness of the world.”

You deflated, feeling like you disappointed him. “How am I to feel sweetness when all I am fed is bitter,” you mutter, turning your gaze from him.

Taking your chin between his fingers, he forced you to meet his gaze. “Do not approach war swinging your ax blindly. Strategy is just as crucial. Bide your time, cielo.”

Sighing heavily, you repositioned yourself besides him, curling around him like a tendril. This was likely the last time you would sleep with him besides you this spring, and you had every intention to honor it.

~

The morning the ship carrying dozens of travelers arrived, you stood on the pier with scores of others, who all appeared delighted as the vessel docked. You instead felt dread in the pit of your stomach, hanging like a laden stone.

When you saw your father approach the walkway, alone, you almost choked when you attempted to swallow. Remembering yourself, you smiled broadly, waving when he caught your eye.

He called your name, his familiar voice bellowing and your worries were temporarily forgotten as you transformed into a girl again.

“Papa,” you sang, greeting his open arms into an embrace. “You did not wait for mother?” Craning your neck over his shoulder, you sought her face among the crowd still emerging in vain.

“I’ve kept your mother home; someone needs to keep your sisters in line. They do not fear their nursemaids; I would surely return back to ruins,” he explains, holding you at arms length, looking you over. “Goodness, we need to find you a husband,” he tsks, “you are more woman than girl now.”

 _He does not mean to be so stupid, so cruel,_ you remind yourself, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Besides, I have already found one.

“Sir Fruela says you’re staying in the castle?” you asked, quick to change subjects before your shared temper got the best of you. You both stood, watching servants carry off trunks and load them onto horse-drawn carts in the cobbled street behind you. 

“Of course,” he said proudly, puffing out his chest. “His majesty will not be there; they are in the Kingdom of Franks, trade deals and such,” he waved a thick hand in front of him. 

“And where is your guard? Certainly you did not travel alone.”

“Ah, there is Terrowin now.” Nodding, you see your father’s second in rank guard carrying a trunk over his shoulder, as if it were weightless. 

“Just Terrowin?” you cried incredulously. 

You had hoped it would have at least been Borin; he only smirked when you’d sneak to the kitchen as a girl for honey cakes past bedtime. Terrowin was silent and frightening, who only kept his best interest in mind: appeasing your father, no matter the cost.

“I had to leave Borin with the girls; I asked Sir Fruela to hire guards for my stay. Just a small company, half a dozen or so.”

Your first thought was riddled with disgust; of course your father possessed wealth but half a dozen guards for one nobleman seemed extravagant. As he and Terrowin, who nodded at you sternly, guided their trunks onto the cart, Pero’s words sprang to your mind, your hands beginning to tremble.

“Ideal timing. Darling, you will join us, won’t you?” he followed Terrowin into the carriage. “Someone help her up,” he commanded, snapping his fingers, and your knees buckled with a small group of mercenaries materialized; Pero stepping forward, his jaw so tight, you could see the bones clench, offered you his hand as you gaped at him, stepping onto the footstool and sitting besides your father.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice small and weak. You squeezed his hand before he released you, and his eyes almost looked desperately brutal.

“You do not need to thank them, child,” you father said tersely. “The man is simply doing his job.”

“Yes I do,” you whispered, watching Pero as he turned away, joining the rest of his divided company.


	2. Chapter 2

The once-steaming water rippling around you in the tub was growing tepid; still you grind your hips against Pero, whose gaze is focused somewhere beyond your shoulder as his fingers trace marks along your spine.

“I’m cold,” you say, pouting a little as you drag your lips over his collarbones. “Come; there’s a fire still lit in my rooms. Take me to bed.”

Grumbling, Pero pulls you closer. “Let me warm you,” he murmurs. 

He’s been home less than a day, and you’ve yet to leave your chambers once. He hid on the balcony when one of the sisters brought your meals; you’d feigned an early spring head cold and missed both your painting lesson and mass. The two of you ate fruit and biscuits and hardly took your hands off each other.

Breaking from his embrace, the water sloshes up the sides of the porcelain as you rise from his lap, emerging onto the cool tiled floor.

“I cannot put my mouth on you in there,” you say over your shoulder, dabbing the droplets from your pebbling skin with a cloth as Tovar watches you walk from the room, his gaze as tenebrous as ever.

Pulling a night robe over you, you sit idly on the stool in front of your easel. Carefully blotting the tip of your brush between a thumb and finger, you discover the midnight blue you’d blended is dried to the hairs. You should have put your supplies away.

Pero appears at your side, his scar-ladened abdomen still wet. His hand squeezes your shoulder, and you lean into his touch as he works out tension you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“I see the likeness,” he notes, looking at the painting you started of the port. “You captured the darkness well.”

It had meant to be a morning scene, and you’d picked out the paints to recreate the peach-like shoreline, but couldn’t find the desire to produce the promise of light. Even so; if the sisters knew you favoured the waters over the Virgin, sunrise or sunset would not matter. You started it before Pero returned home and thought of his eyes, especially the first time you’d caught them in the market. You could only find it in your heart to want to encapsulate the cloak of crepuscular night.

You beam at him; sunrise to his sunset. “I like to think I have.”

You dip the brush in your glass of volatile thinner, watching the oils swirl as Pero surveys your room; you’re both arising from the bliss of being reunited. He stops at folded papers sitting on your bureau and lump forms in your throat.

“Letters from my mother,” you say soothingly.

His hum of understanding is more akin to a grunt of displeasure. “I see. I hope their winter was kind.”

“Likely more so than yours.”

Rolling onto your bed slowly, Pero turns onto his back to watch you put your supplies away as you close the tin lids to your paints. Your linens are discolored from where you’d been sleeping, before Pero had bothered to wash himself after his return; you don’t mind, but you wonder how you’ll explain the crime to the chambermaids.

“Your father means to sell you off, I imagine; still aspiring to pair you with a nobleman of sorts, with his nose in the air and his hands stuck in his pockets,” he mutters, and his languid posture with his hands behind his head does not match his malcontent tone.

Sighing tersely, you wipe your fingers on a stray cloth hanging from your easel and rise from your seat, shimming off your loose nightgown to join him in bed.

“He can do no such thing with a sea between us,” you say tightly, running a hand over his chest. He tenses beneath your touch, but you notice his breath hitch. “Besides, I will refuse all of them.”

“Stouthearted words,” he replies a little dryly, and you mount him as his hands grasps your hips.

“You sound factitious,” you cut back, “you do not believe I am capable of making my own choices?”

Something about his vexation makes heat pool in your belly; Pero Tovar has yet to say it aloud but he loves you, and you know it. Reaching behind you, you grab his length, already growing in your hand. Pumping him into your palm, you align him with your center before sinking into him.

Pero’s thin veneer of crossness is poorly maintained as his eyes flutter shut against his will; gritting his teeth, nostrils flared, his grip on your hips momentarily tightens as you slowly rise and fall.

“You are,” he says, emphasizing. “Yet that is not expected of you.”

Humming faintly, you press your palms to his chest, lowering your mouth to shadow over his. “And what is that?”

Lifting his neck, he catches your lips in a covetous kiss. “You are expected to serve so many you call father; the one who sired you, the one in your churches, the one above. So much devotion to demand from one heart,” he curses. You bear down against him completely, and one of his hands sweeps up your flank.

“Perhaps I should be more like you. Perhaps I ought to be serving myself.”

His hands travel down your back now, splaying out from the small of your back reaching lower. Sitting back upright, you angle yourself so that you can drag him against your clit.

“You do it well; just look at you,” he whispers with reverence. Pero Tovar smiles with his eyes; within their blackness he reveals the plaudit swelling in his chest.

“Do I serve you?” You bring yourself up and focus on the very tip of his cock, tightening yourself around it and a strangled groan escapes him.

He takes a moment to gather himself; you can hear him take effort to steady his breathing. “How can an angel serve its subject?” He clenches his jaw as you lean back down, sucking on his lower lip. “As badly as I want to pluck you from the heavens, to clip your wings, to keep you caged in my heart, I would not dare,” he declares, pressing his forehead against yours. “That would be sacrilege.”

Snarling, he displays impatience with your slow pace. Hands returning to your hips, he lifts you up before bringing you back down onto him and you sharply draw in a breath, startled by the new depth.

You drag one of his hands to your breast; he swirls circles around your nipple and your whimper, shutting your eyes tightly.

“Then join me,” you suggest. Besides, the devil was once an angel himself. Why not be both?

Pero speaks between small gasps for air. “Spoken like a visionary,” he grits out.

“I want you,” you announce, holding your head as high as you can manage it before pressing your lips together to stifle a moan; the pad of his thumb presses against your clit. “I will not take another.”

“No,” he says darkly, jutting his hips against yours and pulling you back against his chest. “You will not.”

~

You haven’t been keeping track of the time passing the past day; night has blanketed the city by now, and you’re tired. Pero lays at your side, his hand flying possessively to your hip.

“From whom did you inherit your beauty? And your wit? Your father?”

Groaning with sleepiness, you laugh. “Neither. He gave me my temper.”

He hums, a rumble coming from his chest. “I am confident it cannot hold a candle to mine.”


	3. Chapter 3

Your back was turned from the mercenaries following your father’s carriage on foot, yet you felt Pero’s eyes, even through the wooden barrier, through the plush velvet cushions and curtains. As if they did not perfectly symbolize what laid between you; pedestals and fine fabrics to chains and dirt and violence. Surely there was no chance he knew he would be assigned to your father; he would have given you fair warning. 

The apricot blossoms perfumed the air as the coach jostled about, weaving along the main road before slowing for a moment, allowing the castle gates to open. Once your party crossed the threshold, all that filled your senses was mud and death; the wheels strained in the eroded earth as the horses struggled with their load.

“…and tonight we dine with Sir Freula and his family; it is a pity his son has already been married, that would have been a fine connection - though Lady Branwen is a good, god-fearing woman - I understand the choice thoroughly. I will arrange with her husband a chance for the two of you to get on. Why I was crippled with the burden of four daughters,” your father heaved a dramatic sigh, and you were uncertain whether or not he was speaking to you, Terrowin, or anyone in particular. 

You rested your head against the frame of the coach, finding yourself craning your neck to peer from the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Pero.

“Are you paying attention, child?” your father’s curt tone cut through your reverie and you fixed a polite smile. 

“Forgive me, papa. I woke early to prepare for your arrival. I am weary.”

He hummed, and when you found the courage to look at him, his face appeared disappointed. When the horses slowed, pulling up at the gatehouse, a strange guard opened the coach door and you froze.

The guard held his hand expectantly for you, and you swallowed. Pero stood behind him, poised to almost lunge with his hand resting on the hilt of the sword on his belt. His eyes were so dark you thought he might summon rain, but with a tick of his head so inconspicuous only you noticed, he nodded, urging you to move. 

Your father said your name, but still you remained in place before Terrowin’s voice boomed.

“You were given an order, girl. Move.” 

Terrowin was a tall, young man with an unkind face, hair as red as flames and eyes so blue, they were aberrant, and they bore into you with venom.

Taking the guard’s hand, you held your skirts, careful to watch your footing as you descended. While the other mercenaries began to unload the wagon, handing trunks and luggage off to servants already rushing from inside, Pero acted as a sentinel, eyes scanning the courtyard. He reminded you of the man you noticed at the solstice festival nearly a year ago; unbending, severe. Standing with your hands behind your back, you remained close to him as you watched your father bark orders.

“Did you know?” Your whisper was faint, but Pero was well-trained; he noticed.

“No,” he breathed back, and amongst the wolves that seemed to be gaining around you, stalking in circles, his voice was a familiar beast at your back, staving the other predators off in your mind. 

“Come along, daughter,” your father bellowed, “much to discuss.”

“After you, my lady,” Pero droned out, his eyes beseeching you to remain in character as he motioned for you to lead the way.

“Yes, father.”

You weren’t unfamiliar with the castle; often you received invitations for dinners and feasts as the daughter of a nobleman, so you did not feel the draw to admire the masonry, the intricately-crafted candelabras and sconces that lined the corridors as you were led to your father’s quarters. Massive paintings loomed over you as you threaded along, saints and virgins narrowing in with Pero at your heels.

When servants ushered your group towards a wing, you stood against an adjacent wall, watching your father’s things be carried in.

“You must want to rest after your journey,” you said to your father, “I shall meet you back here for dinner this evening, if -”

“Don’t be preposterous, child,” he replied, “you are staying here; I sent servants to fetch your things from the convent. No, I don’t suspect you’ll be returning there. Bless the sisters, but I am afraid they do not possess the same goal I have.”

“What do you mean?” you asked slowly. Your entire body seemed to pulse, waiting for him to respond.

“You and your sisters are _wild_ ,” he chastised, cornering you against the wall. Again you saw Pero from your peripheral, hand slowly returning to his sword. “I have been far too soft with the lot of you, you especially; painting and traveling before finding you a husband. I let your mother talk me into it and it was a mistake. Women without the stern guidance of men is an invitation for the devil - no - you will remain here with me, and Terrowin will be your guard in the meantime.”

“But father -”

“Do not speak back, girl,” Terrowin warned from behind him. 

“Do you see?” your father raged, gesturing towards Terrowin and flailing his arms in indignation. “She is out of control. Wild! This is entirely my fault. You need a strong-willed husband,” he sneered, spinning around to face you again as a finger wagged in front of your nose, “lest you manipulate him as well.”

Unable to control the urge, you looked at Pero, just in time for him to swiftly look away.

Handmaidens appeared, bowing slightly at the knees and inviting you to follow them to your new rooms.

“Go and select something finer to wear for dinner,” your father demanded. “Your hems are filthy. Those nuns are too soft. Women!” 

“Is that all that’s being brought?” you asked, your voice very small as you waited in vain for anything besides your trunk to be carried in. “My easel, my canvases - what am I to do?”

“Enough!” 

Everyone froze on the spot, holding their breath and watching your father. 

“No _more_ ,” he hissed, his face reddening. “No wonder you are unwed; your priorities are not with God, not with family. I will not tolerate it a moment longer. Dinner is at sundown.” Without another word, he turned on his heels and stormed into his rooms, leaving you, Terrowin, and the guards in his wake. 

“Do not test him, my lady,” Terrowin said, and it did not sound like a suggestion. 

Pero looked just as hostile as the rest of the guards, standing uncomfortably as you tried your best to hold your chin, walking towards your designated end of the wing. It only comforted you slightly to know his anger was on your behalf, not because of you. 

Surrounded by people and more monitored than ever, you could not remember the last time you felt so alone. 

~

Perhaps it was dramatic, but you chose a very dark gown in protest; purple so deep it looked black if you stood far enough away from the lights. It did not go unnoticed.

“You look ghoulish, you ridiculous girl,” your father muttered, noting your somber choice as you took your seat across from him, being shortly joined beside Lady Maria, Sir Fruela’s wife. A sober woman, you knew she would do very little to help distract from what you knew would be the topic of conversation; your suitors. 

You chided yourself for not putting more effort into female companionships since you arrived in Spain - your solitary nature did little to help you in efforts, and you relied so heavily on your sisters for it growing up. Not that anyone could save you from your fate; though you wished deeply that even your youngest sister was across the table, making faces to lighten the mood. She did not fear your father as she should, and likely wouldn’t until it was her heart, her livelihood on the line. 

Guards shifted around the table, their backs to the wall. Pero stood almost directly behind your father, and when your eyes met his, his lips parted. 

“You know that Lord Aylwin’s son is a fine young man,” Fruela noted loudly, breaking the piercing sound of forks and knives scraping in the vast dining hall. 

“I thought master Aylwin had his sights set on Saint Abbey’s,” your father replied, already halfway through his first glass of wine. “Or was it a monastery here?”

“I believe he realized the importance of marrying, as the family’s only son.”

“He is young, isn’t he? Just of age? No,” father chortled in an undignified manner into his glass. “No, too malleable; Caldwell is widowed, I thought he may appreciate an invitation to the next feast when his majesty returns next week.”

“I hope you are partial to dogs,” Lady Maria whispered, leaning close to you, and you turned your attention towards her. “Lord Caldwell hunts; he has fifteen hounds. They were shipped from Éire - John says they stand taller than a grown man on their hind legs.” 

You were certain that Lady Maria meant to tempt you with an interesting anecdote, but you knew your smile was sour. Nodding, you drew in a deep breath, reaching for your wine. 

“How are you finding your hired guard?” Fruela asked, scanning the room. 

“Very well, thank you,” your father replied. 

“Will you be needing more?” Fruela nodded in your direction; they spoke of you as if you were merely nothing more than a fixture. 

“Ah, well,” your father chewed loudly, craning his neck every which way to recount his hired men. “No, that won’t be necessary. Terrowin is stationed to her, and, Terrowin,” he snapped his fingers, and you heard the guard shift behind you. “Rotate the others; keep a second eye on her ladyship.”

“Yes, my lord.”

As Fruela and your father engaged in discussions involving the king’s recent trade deal, Lady Maria brought her glass to her lips, raising her dark brows. 

“It’s not so awful, arrangements. Especially when the children arrive; you will be blessed. After all of this allotted freedom, you must be eager to settle down, to be married. Aren’t you?” There was a strange hint of amusement across her face and you couldn’t place from what.

You glanced over your father’s shoulder and directly into Pero’s eyes, the gnash illuminated by the flaming torches. For the first time since that morning, he stared back. 

A volatile wave of determination rose inside of you as your eyes locked; Pero would be your husband. Even if you had to die for it.

“I am,” you said, your voice unwavering. 

~

Time dragged by agonizingly slow, and even when Pero’s rotation to guard you looped around, he was beside a domineering Terrowin, who hardly left six feet between you unless you were alone in your rooms. Truly for the first time in your life you felt like a caged animal, pacing and stalking about while being watched, fed, and occasionally let out into the sunshine.

You were accustomed to long periods of time without Pero; this was an entirely different sort of torment. He was constantly either down the corridor or outside of your bedroom, and yet you were forbidden to speak to him outside of formalities, let alone touch him. 

On your seventh night there, you were walking back from dinner escorted by him and Terrowin, with the latter taking the lead up ahead. You reached your arm out, eyes carefully watching the fiery head of your father’s guard, only to brush your fingers against Pero’s, even for a moment.

You felt a crush of rejection as he pulled his hand away, giving you a curt shake of his head. Your spurred attempt weighing on your chest felt like drowning, and you crinkled your nose against petulant tears. 

“See to it she’s taken straight to her rooms,” Terrowin said once the three of you had reached your father’s guest wing. “I am needed below.”

“I would like to go for a walkabout the garden,” you announced. Any excuse to not sit in your rooms, cold and oversized with nothing to do but read or dull needlework you did not possess the patience for; your anger at being turned away by Pero was suffocating.

“It’s after dark, don’t be stupid, girl,” he spat before looking at Pero again. “Keep her inside, or her father will have your head.” Without another word, he spun around and briskly walked towards the staircase.

Terrowin was likely rushing to the brothels as you heard all the guards take turns doing this week; your father had certainly polished off enough wine at dinner that Terrowin’s absence would not be noted.

He was well out of sight, leaving you and Pero alone for the first time since your father arrived. When you could no longer hear his footsteps, you stared at one another for what felt like a very long time.

Standing feet apart in the ringing quiet of the dark castle, you felt your heart might break from its thrashing against your ribs, waiting for Pero to do something; you could not bear it if he pulled away from you again. Parting your lips with your tongue, you blinked back tears. 

“Goodnight,” you whispered hotly, motioning towards your door just slightly ajar. 

He pounced on you. 

Cradling your head and steering you into the room, his lips unfolded against yours and you were finally able to breathe for the first time, his mouth softer than you had ever felt it. Velvet petals engulfed yours; his novel approach to this act the two of you had perfected months prior brought you to tears, to repose, to reanimation. He moaned quietly, his tongue the sweetest honey as you tasted it on yours. How he maintained such gentleness in that very violent moment of need was beyond you; you flung your arms around his neck, marveling in the hair that met the back of his neck with the pads of your fingers. 

“Cielo,” he breathed, his thumbs tracing over your cheeks as he barely pulled away from your mouth to speak. “You must be strong; I will not risk your life for my sake -” 

“How long will Terrowin be gone?” you cut him off, tugging on his tendrils to guide his lips back to yours.

“He spoke truthfully; only a moment. The king arrives and he is to greet the knights,” he explained. Instead of raking greedy hands over your breasts, pulling your center against his as he normally would, instead he embosomed your face with his large hands, drinking you in with his eyes, thrumming with tenebrosity. 

“If you truly want to serve yourself,” he hissed, and he was suddenly overcome with severity, commanding your attention, “then you will do what you must for now. We are at war; do not make a rash move when you are surrounded. Do you understand?”

You nodded madly, a lock of your hair spilling into your face. When one of his digits swept it away, you grasped his hand, leaning into it.

“I am honored to be the one behind your door,” he said. “Now I must go, before your father’s guard returns.”

“I -” you wanted to say it; the words were tumbling from your mouth, yet the dark, crimson room that frightened you with its vastness and the cold, massive beg that begged for more bodies, for a warm lover, reminded you of the dangers of unleashing them. Not here, not when the stakes were so high against the sentiment.

“I will be strong,” you told him firmly, and he sighed in relief at your cooperation. 

Pressing his lips against you for what you knew would be the last time until another clandestine opportunity arose, he nuzzled against you before releasing you. 

“I am right here,” he reminded you, and it looked as if it took him a great effort to finally slip through the door before closing it gently behind him.

The castle was on a high moor, susceptible to winds that blew from the oceans below. The cries from the spring breeze sounded like wailing beyond the windows, and you undressed quickly in front of the fire before crawling into bed, your only comfort being the heart beating just beyond the thick, wooden door.


	4. Chapter 4

Waking the following morning, the veil of greying fog that laid beyond the windows was almost a comfort to your heart; your rooms were a scarlet coffin, the red tormenting you for your love and hinting at the violence that seemed to nip at your heels. You laid wrapped in your sin, buried beneath it as the rest of the world beyond the glass seemed to grow without you. The thick, colorless sky was a neutral battleground; a fair day would have been cruel. Why should the spring sun be wasted on your heart, ambivalent unless Pero stood beneath it, his scar prominent as he’d squint? Your fingers twitched for a paintbrush, wishing desperately you could try to capture the dullness outside, to balance the threat of the passionate, demanding red surrounding you until you remembered you had nothing.

Fortunate that you rose before servants could arrive, you peeled the sheets away and slipped from the enormous bed, reaching for a housecoat draped over the chaise lounge beside the fire. Selecting a small piece of quartered wood within the iron rack beside the hearth, you raked it over the coals before tossing it on, watching it slowly catch, the flames lapping up the sides. 

Creeping for the door, it creaked open at your command, and you poked your head out. 

“My lady,” one of Pero’s company, a kind-faced, stocky man by the name of Luis stood where you would normally find Terrowin. “Shall I fetch a handmaiden?”

“No, I can wait,” you replied, pulling your coat together and slowly retreating back into your rooms. It had been silly to hope Pero might still be there, alone. “Thank you.”

Once the door was safely shut behind you, sealing the lid of your bloodied tomb, you approached the Lindenwood desk, gripping the matching chair. Tracing the delicate curves of the carved foliage, you thought of the hollow of Pero’s throat; chiseled, somehow just deep enough for the pad of your thumb. A cavity in an oak tree beside the window mimicked the same crevasse and your body suddenly ached for him. Every inch of you felt vacant; in Pero’s absence, you at least had your art, even if it was cursed recreation of the mother or one of her blind, vicious saints; at the very least, the colors were your own to manipulate. You could relay your longing for your lover into their modest robes, their halos, and taint them with the secret of your desecration. 

You were stolen from your reverie when a tiny rap at the door sounded, and two handmaidens entered.

“Good morning, my lady,” one of them sang, and you looked over your shoulder. As they flittered around the room, seemingly baffled by the new wood on the fire, you sulked over to the bureau, waiting to be dressed.

The older of the two girls opened the fixture and began rifling through your wardrobe. Selecting a red garment, she held it out. “For today?”

“Please,” you said wearily, “anything color but that one.”

Offering a sympathetic smile, she placed it back on the rack before her hand landed on a golden-yellow dress; Pero’s favourite.

“Perhaps we could all use a little sun today,” she suggested, and you smiled reluctantly in agreement. 

Out in the corridor, Luis was now accompanied by Terrowin, and they both stood alert when you emerged from your rooms.

“The king’s council meets this morning,” Terrowin announced, his steely eyes void of emotion. “You will break your fast alone; servants will bring a tray. Your father will send for you when Lord Caldwell returns from his hunt.”

Outraged, your chest swelled with anger. “So, I am to stay in my rooms all day? Can I at least go to the gardens?”

“If you insist, my lady,” he said slowly, swallowing his annoyance at your defiance. “It will have to wait until the afternoon. Return to your rooms.”

Your food hardly touched, you instead wrote poetry in front of the window at the desk when, hours after you awoke, the sound of a carriage pulled by a team of horses sounded outside in the courtyard, accompanied by the booming howls of dogs.

Sitting on your knees in the chair and pressing your palms on the window sill, you watched a man emerge from the coach dressed entirely in black. Several servants arrived, some beckoning the dogs to follow, holding something in their hand as they eagerly followed, others unpacking trunks before leading the carriage away. When the cloaked man peered directly into your window, you ducked. Lord Caldwell had returned. 

You began to panic, wringing your hands together as the fathers pulling the strings from the cathedrals released their serpents, lowering you into the snakepit. More than ever you wished to seek out Pero, to beg him to take you from here. 

Another knock on your door brought you to your senses, and when you opened it, Terrowin and Pero stood on the other side. 

“Lord Caldwell requests your presence in the gardens,” Terrowin told you, and Pero looked sanguinary, eyes eclipsed with rage. “I will be escorting your father to the market today; Tovar here is assigned to you. If you stray from the line, he will be sure to see it.”

Terrowin headed towards the north side of the castle; your father of course had to select wines for the feast himself. 

“After you, my lady,” Pero said, not breaking character. 

“I do not want to meet with him,” you mouthed, your eyes swimming with tears as your heart pounded with foreboding. 

Pero’s face twisted in mutiny. “I will not let him harm you,” he vowed. 

“What are we going to do?” you hissed, your chin trembling.

“I do not know! I don’t know,” he repeated more quietly. “Would you have me gut your father like the swine he is? Would you have me sneak you past the guards that line these walls like stone?”

“Yes!” 

Pero walked closer to you, temporarily unbothered by the dangers of being caught chest to chest. “Never mind what they would do to me; they could do it a thousand times over and it would be a welcome hell, to have you in my arms for one final moment. But do you know what they would do to you if we were caught fleeing?”

His words were a knife twisting in your belly, the pain clenching your insides, dragging your breath with it. 

“They would cut you, they would torture you. Even your father. You know,” he whispered, and he too looked close to tears, hot and angry. “I will never do that to you. Do not ask me to,” he pleaded, and your face crumpled when his voice broke. 

You reached for his face, pulling him into an open-mouthed, shambolic kiss and his arm wrapped around you, pulling you against him. 

“I will do it for you,” you said, digging for a smoldering bravery inside of your belly buried deep within you. “Now, shall we?”

You led the way, and his hand brushing momentarily against yours before you turned for the stairwell ignited the flames you needed to face the stranger waiting for you below. 

~

The man stood before a fountain, nestled in the center of the gardens. From a distance he appeared like a Crone; black robes with a matching hat, and a cane gripped by white knuckles. 

Lord Caldwell was a strange man to look upon; it was evident he might be handsome, had he possessed a different soul beneath his ashen pallor. Remarkably dark hair curled beneath his chin and billowed beneath his wide-brimmed hat, just as raven as the rest of him. Caldwell sat on the king’s council and resided within the walls but you had never met him; if the king did not have him traveling, signing treaties and hauling bribes across the deep seas, he was hunting. Now, he stood before you, smiling deviously as you minced towards him. Two enormous dogs sauntered about, their tails standing erect when they noticed you.

“Ah, my lady,” he crooned, tilting his chin upright to peer from beneath his hat. “Apologies for requesting this rather unorthodox introduction; when I received word from your father, I knew I could not wait a moment too long to meet your acquaintance.”

You curtsied, and you felt energy radiating from Pero over your shoulder. “I hope your hunt was gainful, Lord Caldwell. Welcome back,” you replied, forcing politeness through your clipped tone.

“Join me,” he said, curling a finger into his palm as he stepped onto the path, weaving through the yew shrubs that brought up the hem of the walkway.

Pero stayed a few paces behind. “Where is your guard, my lord?” you asked suddenly. 

“At your feet,” he replied, gesturing towards the dogs that wove ahead with his cane that seemed more ornamental than practical. “They are loyal creatures; I find it hard to trust the motives of men.”

“A rather crass spirit,” you noted, hoping he did not mistake your conversation for banter. 

“Is it, though? Dogs are easily motivated by food and praise, trained to remain loyal; one cannot say the same for humans. Humans are tempted by riches, lust, blood, power. Loyalty can be bought so easily.” 

“Humans were carefully crafted by god,” you countered. “Are you insulting his creation?”

Caldwell veered to the right of the path, reaching above his head for a crabapple branch, lowering the blossoms to his nose. Their perfume seemed wasted on his intent, the rose-like buds an unwilling contrast against him. 

“Adam was perfect,” he whispered with reverence, “as was Eve, the product of perfection. Pity,” he said, releasing the branch as it sprung back into place, and little pink petals littered the ground at his feet. “For it was her sin that led us to ruin.”

Resentment churned in your heart, and you fixed your stare on his. “The pity is that she hardly is given the credit for her power.”

Immediately worried that you overspoke, you held your breath, but Lord Caldwell only smiled. You shrank away slightly when a cold finger traced along your jaw.

Pero made a swift movement behind you, his feet shuffling. Caldwell released you, frowning, and when you looked over your shoulder, his fist was clenched around the hilt of his blade.

“What is it, man?” Caldwell asked sharply, clearly annoyed by the disruption. 

After a pause, Pero spoke. “Forgive me,” he panted. “It must have been your dogs.”

Humming in displeasure, Lord Caldwell sucked on the inside of his cheek. “Perhaps we ought to get you back to the castle,” he suggested as he turned his focus back on you, his smile more akin to a sneer. “You’ve had enough exercise for the day, I imagine.”

He strode back along the path, whistling for his dogs, who ran past you as Pero waited for you to move. He was heaving, his chest rising rapidly as his eyes burned into you.

With a distracted Caldwell preoccupied with his dogs ahead, already obscured by the maze-like greenery, your heart nearly leapt from its place in your chest when you felt Pero’s possessive fingers press into the small of your back.

“This is war, cielo.” His whisper was ghostlike, but you heard it all the same.

~

Despite your lack of appetite, you swore to yourself to eat to your heart’s content, only with the intention of revolting your father, who had weak-minded opinions surrounding the topic of a woman’s eating habits. Pero, even through the tense affair, barely contained a smirk when he caught your eye; of course your lover, who made your nourishment his livelihood when he could, sneaking you fruits and flaked pastries from the market for almost every visit, enjoyed the sight. 

You knew your father well; he looked thoroughly mortified as you dropped your fork ceremoniously onto the porcelain plate. 

“Heavens, girl. One might think you were the one returning from a hunt,” he complained.

A brief swell of appreciation rose in your chest as Lady Maria rolled her eyes from behind her glass.

“The fault is mine,” Lord Caldwell said from the other end of the table, “I took her for a turn in the garden this afternoon. I should have known I was exerting her! Although, a hearty appetite is perhaps a habit to encourage; I do not expect heirs from a waif.”

Your eyes shot towards Pero, and you almost felt a tremor beneath the earth as his breath quickened. Lord Caldwell had returned to the castle not twelve hours ago and already you feared the grounds would be scorched before any arrangement could be solidified. 

You could not stand the tension a moment longer. “If you would please excuse me, I must retire for the night. Goodnight, my lords, Lady Maria.”

Your father heaved a sigh, pursing his lips. “Very well,” he waved, “I need Terrowin tonight, but I shall allow him to send someone for you this evening.”

If your father needed Terrowin, that meant he was surely going to the brothels tonight; your revulsion was quickly replaced with elation when Terrowin nodded towards Pero.

They must think Pero the meanest of them all, you thought to yourself. His scar, his scornful looks. As he stalked around the table, you felt fortunate to know the way his mouth looked when he was pleased, or when he spilled over your belly, or when you said something particularly clever.

Your core pooled with aching heat as you silently walked towards your rooms, weaving through stairwells and beneath lit sconces. Only paces from your door, Pero pushed you firmly into a nook in the wall that barely hid you from the corridor. 

Holding you by the chin, the other hand wrapped around your waist, his nose wrinkled. He was trembling, shaking with fury, his breath coming in unsteady pants. 

An almost defiant look glazed over your face. “I am trying,” you whispered. “I am being strong -”

“I know you are,” he breathed back, “and it makes me crave you all the more.”

His lips were forceful and languid, hurriedly dragging over yours in a messy, desperate kiss. His tongue lapped at yours, pushing into your mouth with need as his grip traveled down your lower back, down to the backs of your thighs and he propped you onto the ledge behind you.

He hiked your skirts up to your hips as he allowed you to search beneath the layers of armor and cloth, digging into the front of his trousers and gripping his length in your palm. You stroked him a few times and he moaned against your neck, sucking your skin there before flattening his tongue, tasting you. The two of you moved in rhythm, quickly and proficiently as he freed himself, dragging the head of his cock along your soaked folds. You arched your hips, gripping the stone at your back as he aligned with your center, and you gasped as he penetrated you against the castle wall.

One of his hands gripped the back of your leg and the other cushioned behind your head as his cock thrusted inside of you, your mouths never parting. You parted your legs wider, your stocking catching on his chainmail as you encouraged him to drive himself into you deeper, his thumb pinching the supple skin of your thigh.

“You will give no heirs to that pig,” he spat, his teeth dragging between your lower lip as your head rolled back against the wall. “You will give nothing to him.”

Your head lolled forward, into his shoulder as you climax rose, your body caving against his as the grip on your leg threatened to mark you. 

“Stay inside of me,” you whimpered, wrapping an arm around his back and pressing him into you.

“Not yet, cielo; do not tempt me. You know I want to,” he growled.

“My mouth, then, anywhere,” you whispered, and he plunged into you more roughly a few more times before snarling. 

He pulled out and backed away and you hopped from your perch, lowering yourself quickly to your knees and took him in your mouth. Sucking hard, he almost immediately filled your mouth with heat, and you let it pool down your throat.

When you released him, he quickly tucked himself away before pulling you to your feet, kissing you greedily, tasting himself.

Steering you with his hand on the small of your back, he led you to your door.

“Bed, cielo. And do not forget,” he spun you around, pressing his forehead to yours, “I will not allow you to give anything to him. I will not let him take from you.”

“I know you won’t,” you whispered, reaching for the doorknob. “And neither will I.”


	5. Chapter 5

The convent was often guarded by mercenaries, so Pero never seemed out of place as he crossed through the open gates, the wrought-iron barrier beckoning anyone to come and seek religion. 

You thought he came bearing gifts as some way to justify his presence in your bed; small spray roses cut at an angle, thorns thoughtfully removed as he’d tuck them into your loose braid; you saved each one in a small wooden box your father’s footman carved for you as a girl. Marzipan cakes wrapped in beeswax parchment, pomegranates, honeycomb in little glass pint jars were among some of his warming treats; you knew mercenaries faired better than most peasants, but you wondered why he spent such portions of his own coin to appease your sweet tooth or sentiment when he had already won you. He would steal into your room, deluge you with quiet, feverish kisses, and wait with circumspect for you to guide him to your bed or your bath, setting his offering on your bureau like it was a shrine.

As the summer progressed, so did your shared comfort with one another; he never failed to bring you little tokens, but instead of being offered as courteous payments, they were pulled from his satchel with a proud smile. “For you, mi cielo,” he’d whisper, “yet not as sweet.”

His visits became harder to end, your legs entwined for hours until he would force himself to break away from your heat, reluctantly shrugging back into his armor. You became reckless as you tumbled into love with the dark-eyed mercenary; sneaking from your rooms at dawn to join him in the early morning dry heat, allowing him to take you to hidden streams deep enough to submerge into. How he would cup your weightless curves beneath the water, pulling you against his warm blood and bring you to hushed heights for no one but the marsh marigolds to see. 

“I want this every day,” you remember telling him during that particular bold escape. “Why should it have to be so forbidden?”

“Every day? How indulgent,” he playfully chided, running his thumb over your hardened nipple. You wrapped your legs around his middle within the cool waters, the morning sun crossing over into the afternoon through the hardwoods above you. “Surely this must be pure rebellion for you; a young beauty of wealth, determined to taste it all before your true love comes along.”

“That isn’t true,” you said fiercely, and he smirked at your graveness. “I do not seek rebellion for the sake of simply rebelling. I was not looking for you when I found you,” you explained, brushing sediment from the stream from his chest. “Never before have I wanted to share this much company with anyone like this, save for my sisters. And still, this is different.”

“Is it, now?” he said, a ghost of a teasing smile still tugging at his lips, but his eyes grew sober. “Different?”

You refused to spoil the day with emotions that stemmed from circumstances beyond your control. Forcing an airy grin, you pressed a kiss to his mouth. “I suppose I do not know. I do know, however, that I won’t allow my father to marry me off to some tiresome lord with a tiresome manor to host tiresome dinners. Perhaps I will run away; tend to sheep, and have a very large garden,” you giggled, sighing in resignation. “It is at least amusing to dream of.”

“You are a romantic,” he decided, and you noticed his brows knot slightly. “You make the most ordinary life sound extraordinary.” 

“I suppose what makes it extraordinary is with whom you choose to share it with.”

It was too late; storm clouds traveled over his eyes. “For those of us who may make those choices, yes.” 

Summer waned, making room for its solemn sister Autumn, her colors a more somber vibrancy in the city. Green passed its torch to gold, pinks and blues to reds; massive beech trees appeared to bleed as the crimson foliage pooled at their trunks. 

“I have been hired by a man from the north to travel east,” Pero had told you late one night, as you shut your balcony doors to keep the cooler air out as it tried in vain to penetrate the fogging glass. 

“Oh,” you replied, making your best attempt at casualness. “When might you return?”

When he did not respond, when he only looked at you behind hooded eyes, you ceased your work of busying yourself around your rooms. You wrung your hands together absentmindedly as you stood before the fireplace. 

“I do not know. A year at the most, in the spring if we are successful.”

A year? Often you brushed off your father’s persistent threats of coming to Spain, to arrange a marriage for you if he was not sought out by a nobleman asking for your hand, but a year seemed too long to postpone it. At least with Pero here most of the time, you felt occupied, like your father could not come between you from such a distance. 

“I will wait for you, then,” you finally said, drawing in a breath and straightening. “However long that might be.”

Pero’s olive skin tinged pink as he pursed his lips into a little smile. “Your stubbornness often manifests itself in my favour,” he breathed. “I revoke any complaints I’ve ever made towards it.”

Joining him on the bed, you allowed him to pull you against him. “It is my greatest strength, my nursemaid always told me. Though I believe she was mostly vexed by it.”

He didn’t reply, he only kissed the top of your head, seeming to savor in the closeness.

~

Your bed was just as cold and empty when you woke as it always was, but a lingering heat remained between your legs. 

Laying against the pillows, you shut your eyes tight, recalling Pero’s hands on you for the castle walls to watch. The encounter gave you a rush of power, a sense that perhaps you held the reins of your paramour more tightly than you were led to believe. And yet, the way Lord Caldwell’s icy finger had felt tracing along your jaw; if Pero hadn’t been there…if you did not act, then you would be married to Caldwell, your father would return home, and Pero would no longer be in your service, his hands poised to draw his sword. You would be Lady Caldwell and Pero Tovar would leave. 

Your throat seized up at the thought and you rose, climbing out of bed and darting towards your desk. You hadn’t written to your sisters since your arrival at the castle, and surely they were bursting to hear what they likely knew was driving you mad.

You had never wanted an arranged marriage.

Perhaps your mother truly thought you would eventually choose God if she allowed you to go to the convent under the pretense that you were to paint. Your father believed he was being benevolent by sending you alone, no matter how unorthodox it was; you would attend feasts and spend time with the right families and fall in love on your own accord. 

And, of course, you did. Pero’s blood was born of a true life, though; he was not a calculated creation that would bridge the gap between two lands to gain wealth and property. For that, you often believed, you loved him all the more.

You quickly penned a letter to your sisters, addressed to the three of them to read together; you mentioned the wonders of springtime and the expansive gardens, the rooms within the castle and the almond paste cakes. None of them knew of Pero; it was too great a risk to speak of him, not with your father growing more strict by the day. If he had intercepted your correspondences, surely your sisters would be punished for keeping your secret. You made sure to humor them; you noted Lord Caldwell’s lanky, ghost-like frame, his oversized hat, and the cane. Mocking him made him less frightening.

You’d sealed it and prepared it for departure just in time for the chambermaids to arrive, ready to dress you.

“Lady Maria has requested you break your fast in her rooms this morning; Lord Fruela is hunting,” she added quickly when she noticed your eyes grow larger with each word she spoke. 

You stiffed, chewing on your lip as you considered the invitation. “Send word that I will join her, please,” you told the girl. 

~

It was Terrowin who led you to the south wing of the castle, where Lord and Lady Fruela resided. John Fruela was not a treasurer of coin or a cleric, nor a mind of military or ship navigation or trade; Lord Fruela was simply a confidant of the king, a jovial but cunning man who knew whom to appease, whom to whisper to and whom to withhold. Lady Maria was a mystery; charming and reticent, she was more intimidating despite her warmth, for her confidence seemed to radiate and expand like the torches contained by the golden sconces that lined the walls with nothing more than a look.

What she wanted from you, you had yet to discover.

You knocked on the thick oak door, only waiting a moment before she opened it herself, a smug smile pulling on her lips. 

“I am pleased you accepted my invitation, my lady,” she said, offering you a brief curtsy. “Please, come in,” she opened the door further and her smile warmed as you passed her, and you turned when she clicked her tongue. “We will be needing no supervision this morning.”

Terrowin had intentions to follow you inside her rooms. His chest swelled, and he glanced at you, his eyes narrowed. “Of course, my lady,” he replied, “I shall stand guard here.”

“And what a splendid job you shall do,” she said dryly, shutting the door. “Welcome.”

Lady Maria’s rooms were far different than yours; of course they would be, as she was a resident. The ceilings were vaulted, painted a pale, morning blue with golden trim around the columns and windows. It was not what you expected from the cloak-and-dagger woman.

“You and Lord Fruela have lovely quarters,” you said, craning your neck to admire the craftsmanship. 

Lady Maria spurted out a laugh, sitting in a cushioned iron chair on the balcony. A soft palm outstretched towards the chair opposite hers, between them a table and a tray ladened with fruits, cheese, and pastries. “Please, sit; it is finally seasonable outside,” she said. “And I thank you, though these are not John’s rooms. He comes when he is invited.”

Your lips parted in shock. Smiling, you took the small cup of tea she offered. “Forgive me for not asking my servants to escort me,” you said, blushing as you realized Lady Maria was serving you.

“Nonsense,” she said, laying back languidly in her seat. This is when you noticed she was still in her chemise, a silk housecoat of golds barricading her. The sun rising beyond the gardens below reflected off it and it shimmered as she adjusted against the cushions. “I prefer to be alone when I can. I do not need to be spoon-fed.” 

Lady Maria was perhaps ten years your senior, with dark eyes and even darker hair that cascaded down to her elbows. Naturally beautiful, this only contributed to her overawing air.

“As do I; if only I have the authority to -”

“You do,” she interrupted, holding her head up. “Your maids will not run to your father if you want to dress yourself.”

Bringing the teacup to your lips, you nodded in agreement. “I suppose that’s true.”

Humming, she watched you, cocking her head to one side. “You best assert yourself where you can now, before you become a resident of the castle.”

The all-too-familiar feeling of your heart seizing up, you swallowed, forcing a stiff smile. “That is wise counsel.”

“You do not wish to marry Alistar,” she said bluntly, plucking a fig from the tray and biting into it.

“Who?”

“Lord Caldwell,” she drolled in a mocking tone. 

Tensing, you became preoccupied with your cuticles, digging into them with a fingernail and watching acutely. “I do not know him,” you reply.

“And I did not know John.” Leaning forward, she commands your attention; a waft of jasmine fills your nose, and you want to break away from her stare to admire the flowers, but you find you cannot. “While I find your attitude towards these imbeciles amusing, especially your arrogant father, you do not want to offend Alistar Caldwell.”

Speechless, you quickly try to deduce whether or not you’re being threatened or warned. “I do not wish to offend anyone -”

“Lord Caldwell is the most powerful man in Spain, more so than my husband because he is not so easily swayed with gifts and flattery, and even more powerful than the king.”

“How?” you whisper.

“Caldwell is ruthless; he has no limits. He will do what it takes to succeed; the king knows this, and so does your father. He will not be bested or made to feel like a fool by anyone, especially his wife,” she said fiercely, her nostrils flaring. She was more terrifying and more beautiful than you had ever seen her. “Your antics may have been endearing at home, but they will not be tolerated here. For now, you are a guest, but as Lord Caldwell’s wife you will represent him and his majesty,” she leaned towards you even deeper now, a stray curl swinging over her steaming tea, “now is not the time to revolt, like a spoilt child. No, you must evolve. No one cares how badly you wish to agitate. If you wish to paint, so be it, but be clever; do not sport evidence on your fingers. You impress no one that way. To truly win, do not give them the chance to break you. Keep your mind sharp and your heart closed. Do you understand?”

For the first time since your father arrived in Spain, you did not feel like an insurgent on your own behalf; you felt truly afraid. 

“I understand,” you said in a small voice. 

In Lady Maria’s grand rooms, amongst the lush fruits and her uninhibited demeanor, too assured and decided to mind that her hair fell wildly and she hadn’t bothered to dress for your call, you realized how small you were in your new world.

It was no longer you standing tall - your sisters cheering your bravery on from behind a banister as you defied your father, or you sneaking from your rooms to paint meadows you’d earlier let Pero kiss your breasts within, their tall grasses containing your secrets. 

It was now you beneath the eyes of God and his spiteful angels and affronted saints and martyr son, and the ones who sat closest to them in their golden towers, their jeweled crowns stretching skyward. 

A commotion in the grounds below you startled you, and both you and Lady Maria peered through the stone railing to watch as your father, Caldwell, and his dogs emerged through the yew shrubs, ascending marble stairs and making their way towards the throne room. Behind them were a few knights and your father’s guard; Pero looking as forbidding as ever and the giant hounds circled their feet.

“Good,” Lady Maria finally said. “Then we may say that this visit has been fruitful.” Plopping a grape between her lips, she sat back in her chair again, her long fingers tapping lightly on the armrest. “Eat,” she commanded, waving a hand in front of the tray. “Lord Caldwell excused your behavior last night, but he will not do it again.” 

~

Your visit with Lady Maria felt like ice water pitching onto the fires within your belly; all that remained was ash and grey soot, and with every comment about your wedding plans made at dinner you felt your stored warmth being smothered out.

You did not heed Lady Maria’s advice out of prudence, but for your lack of appetite; your insides twisted violently, your heart barely suspended on its own accord as your plate sat nearly untouched. You did not avoid Pero’s gaze for lack of want, but fear that one glimpse would bring you to tears.

“…and perhaps, if it pleases, my lady, her sisters may be present?” Lord Caldwell said, clearly trying to pique your interest.

“A generous suggestion, my lord, but as the three of them still remain unwed, I fear a wedding feast may be too much excitement for them,” your father said, laughing awkwardly as he reached for his wine.

“Prudent,” Caldwell adds, watching you from the other side of the table over his glass. “You may send for them once you are settled, of course. After children arrive.”

“Thank you,” was all you could muster. 

“And I will speak to his majesty; you will have your own guard soon. Your father’s will be leaving before we know it.”

Do something, you wanted to shout at Pero, who’s jaw clenched, silently staring at the wall behind you. Yet you knew there was nothing to be done, lest it be the last thing he did.

You waited to be excused tonight, instead of proudly announcing when you wanted to leave. When Terrowin was directed to lead you to your rooms, you locked eyes with Pero; his usual glare was softened, not by love or affection, but sorrow.

~

You sat before a blazing fire in your rooms, hoping that its heat would somehow be absorbed by your spirit, to rekindle what was stomped out on Lady Maria’s balcony. Their shadows and light only demonized the crimson walls, the thick tapestries coming to life as yours seemed to fade away.

A shuffling noise by your door stole your attention from the fire, and you watched as a piece of parchment slid beneath it.

Scurrying over as quickly as you could, you brought it back to your place by the fire before opening it.

Pero could not write in your native tongue but knew you could read his;

Mi Cielo, I cannot go on watching you this way. Be strong, like I know you are. I will not let them harm you. 

Folding the letter and shoving it between your pillow and the bed, you rushed towards the door, and opened it, peering into the hall.

“What is it, girl? Did something happen within the few minutes I was gone?” 

Only Terrowin stood at the post, looking harassed by your sudden appearance. 

“No,” you said, careful not to let your voice shake. “I thought I heard something strange.”

“There is no one here but you,” he told you. “Get your rest.”

It was not the first time you obeyed orders today; closing the door, you trudged into bed, colder than ever.


	6. Chapter 6

The days slipped by, emptied and idle, and they bloomed into another week at the castle. Your only solace was a letter from your sisters and mother; your father had sent word of your engagement to Lord Caldwell, and they attempted to elevate your spirits with reminders of how beautiful you were destined to look before God and Spain.

If only they knew who else would be watching. 

Partway through the week since you were last alone with Pero, he was assigned to escort you for your afternoon walk through the gardens. It was too great a risk to touch beyond careful fingers sweeping over palms, or brief, close-mouthed kisses behind sculpted boxwoods. 

Laughing and staying too close, you rounded a corner just as Lady María was strolling through, thankfully alone save for a solitary knight, albeit several paces away.

Her head seemed to tilt so far to one side, you thought she resembled a bird. Smirking slightly, she bowed. 

“Pardon the interruption,” she said, eyeing Pero curiously.

“Forgive me, the fault was mine. I ought to be more cautious,” you said quickly.

“Sage words,” she replied. “Good evening.”

You waited until she had walked past your guard before looking at Pero, parting your dry lips with your tongue.

“She does not want trouble,” he murmured, and you watched his hand clench into a fist at his side. “Put it out of your mind.” 

You wondered if he was speaking more to himself than you.

As the days went on, you only further scrutinized your observation.

The time you spent with Alistar Caldwell was not intimate; he did not seek an audience alone with you after your initial meeting in the gardens, instead making passing remarks at dinners - how you longed to be like Lady María, who often elected to be served within the privacy of her own rooms. His comments directed towards you were infrequent and often involved pleasing you in some menial manner; rooms with a garden-facing balcony? Or perhaps the sunset, towards the ocean? How many sons did your grandfathers have? The threat of four daughters was a daunting undertaking. Would you prefer mutton or boar for the wedding feast? His inquiries and plans breathed life into the reality, into your burgeoning new identity that you were determined to usurp. 

You forced smiles and solemn nods to acknowledge you were present; you weren’t really, you sat pushing roasted root vegetables and venison around on your plate as you tried to remember the way Pero’s hair smelled as you rolled on top of him in a field of poppies and a volunteer barley crop. Your throat nearly closed at the memory, for that was all it was. In the true waking realm, you ate with Terrowin behind your shoulder and Pero beyond you. You once would conjure images in your mind of his strong, tricky fingers offering you food, sucking them clean. Instead, as you dined with wolves each night, you envisioned more chaste dreams; not sitting opposite Pero, but beside him at a modest wooden table, scrubbed clean by your own adroit hands, bowls brimming with fruit and a meal that the two of you reaped and sowed yourselves. His once obscene hands alternatively fiercely proud and protective, splayed over your growing belly; he would not complain upon the arrival of a daughter. He would name her after his sister, who was prematurely put into the earth alongside their parents before her tenth nameday; she could live on through your love.

“Are you listening, child?” 

Your father’s terse voice cut through your woolgathering, and you turned your head towards him. “Forgive me, father; I am -”

“You are weary, yes, yes,” he muttered, clearly annoyed. “Too many walks in the garden, I daresay. I do not suppose there is much more to discuss, you may be excused. Er, I need Terrowin tonight,” he added, averting his eyes, “he may select a guard to take his place.”

Your father favoured Terrowin enough to grant him an opportunity to frequent the brothels, knowing how to keep him satiated and focused. The thought made your stomach churn, and you prayed they’d choose the harsh, glowering Spaniard.

Perhaps it was God’s fallen angel who granted your wish; you did not see Terrowin curt nod towards Pero, but you watched as your lover stood alert, drawing himself up to his full height.

“When you are ready, my lady,” he said, and his low, rumbling voice pricked the skin on the back of your neck as he walked around the table to stand beside Terrowin. 

“Goodnight,” you said, bowing your head towards the lords seated at the table. Your father asked a servant to send the coach around while Caldwell and Fruela drained their glasses, not even bothering to glance in your direction.

How false their worship was; they never spoke of their ungodly indulgences, but you had heard the heated whispers from your parent’s rooms. Men took advantage of Eve’s sin, all the while blaming her and her serpent accomplice as their female counterparts were held to higher standards, sitting with their hands folded for all to see in unsullied, intact silence. One day, your own hands would be soiled with earth and blood from your own ground and your own slaughter, providing for yourself. Not by the exploits of the poor, their only crime being born in stone huts with thatched roofs. And you would dine with no one but Pero to witness, beneath your own thatched roof of straw and mud you packed yourself, Pero steadying your ladder; it seemed as if you sustained yourself on nothing else besides these daydreams.

As the two of you journeyed in silence, your hand behind your back and reaching for his, he threaded his fingers through yours. Stopping at a massive window part way up the stairwell, you watched your dinner party climb into the mouth of a coach, Terrowin and a few other guards sitting on the rear. 

“I think we are alone,” you noted, raising your eyebrows as you continued your ascent. 

“It appears so,” he agreed. “I intend to take advantage of that.”

A welcome rush of happiness flooded through you as you nearly ran towards your rooms, past the alcove he had taken you in too long ago; the halls seemed to be emptier than ever with the king and queen home - your protection was not nearly as important. You stopped in front of your door.

“Come in, please,” you said quietly, spinning around before he could answer to open the door. 

You darted for your bureau, getting undressed quickly as he shut the door behind him, sprinting over to assist you.

“You are trapped in this,” he muttered, angrily unlacing the fabric at your back and pulling it down until she was freed, stepping out of the pooled linens and silks around your ankles.

Feeling the wooden slats wrapped in the stiff fabric around your rib cage before he dropped the garment to the floor, he recoiled, grimacing. “You are in a cage.”

You naked, he remained clothed as his mouth found yours and he backed you into the cushioned window seat.

“We will see anyone returning from here,” he explained, and he continued to kiss you, his hands drawing you close to him from around your back as he left open-mouthed kisses down your neck. 

Gripping your hips, he seemed to evaluate the missing flesh that usually gathered there, and he clicked his tongue as his eyes pulled together in concern. “Cielo,” he whispered, his voice strained with pain, “you must eat. I cannot go on knowing you are wilting.” 

Frowning, you looked away from him. “Do not bring these things to light; they mean nothing -”

“They mean everything,” he said fiercely. “This,” he hissed, trying to collect as much of your skin in his hands as he could, “is part of your strength. Take care of yourself; I cannot. Don’t make me feel even more helpless than I already do.”

“That was not my intention,” you fretted through oncoming tears, “I shall keep trying. Now please, kiss me while we are able.”

He obeyed fervently, and your heart expanded as he pressed his lush mouth against yours. He often told you that you felt new to him when he would return home from being away, and now you truly understood the sentiment; he was both familiar and comforting and a mint discovery as his smooth tongue slipped past your lips. Careful hands gingerly raked up and cupped your breasts as Pero’s thumbs grazed over your nipples. 

Being in his grasp was both a relief and a torment; how much longer would he be able to hold you tonight? When would he be able to hold you again? Your chest tightened as fresh sobs began to rattle their way through; you attempted to muffle them against his mouth as you reached between his legs, rooting beneath his shirt for his trousers, when his hand enclosed around your wrist.

“I will not have you like this,” he breathed. “Here,” he nudged your legs further apart and stepped between them, pulling you into a deep embrace. 

You felt yourself break; resting your head against his shoulder, you pressed your face into his neck, letting yourself cry as one hand rubbed along your spine, the other combing through your hair as he unfastened the ribbon that kept your braids in place.

“I’m sorry; we’re finally alone, and all I can do is wail like -”

“Hush,” he whispered, and his voice broke slightly. “Let me hold you.”

Instead of cries of pleasure, you sobbed against him. He almost swayed gently on the spot, and you rocked each other, like a transient ship lost at sea.

“We must leave,” you whispered. “I cannot live like this; I would rather die -”

“We will,” he vowed quietly. “I swear it.”

After what felt like too long, he coaxed you into bed, even carrying you over to the red bed, gently placing you down and kissing your thighs.

“I need to be close to you, I need you -”

“Hush,” he repeated, and he climbed fully onto the bed, crouching on his knees between your legs. “I will taste you, and you will sleep.”

Lowering himself to the mound of hair that joined above your core, he parted you with his tongue, moaning heavily as he lapped at your folds. His hands snaked beneath your legs and he dragged you into him, sucking on your bud as you dissolved into the bed. Your grateful fingers wove into his dark mop of hair as you bucked your hips against his mouth. His tongue flicked over you deftly, alternating between small circles and sucks from his lips. 

He followed your movements as you sat up slightly on the pillows to better admire his work. Sable eyes found yours, his scar silver in the light of the fire and you whimpered, letting your hand cradle the back of his head.

“Pero,” you breathed, “you are perfect. Please, never stop.”

His fingers dug into your thighs at your praise, his low hum of appreciation reverberating against you.

“I love your mouth,” you whimpered, “I love your hands, your eyes. I love -”

You came undone, throwing your head back and crying out as your release overtook you, the flames in your belly roaring to life and setting your blood on fire. 

Climbing up you, Pero caged your body with his before kissing you again. The taste of your arousal coated his lips and chin, and you took as much of it as she could, savoring the moment of passion. 

“What about you?” she whispered, palming him against his leg.

“Do not worry about me,” he said firmly. “Sleep. Tomorrow will be draining.”

Your elation was quickly thwarted; the king’s returning feast was tomorrow evening. 

“I will not let any of them touch you,” he growled. “Promise me to rest, and swear to me she will eat; for me, cielo. Hmm?”

Nodding, you ran your thumb over his scar. “Goodnight, sweet Pero.”

“Dream of me,” he murmured, pressing a kiss against your lips.

Rising, he dropped from the bed and walked to the door. “Cielo,” he whispered, holding onto the knob.

“Yes?”

He drew in a deep breath before offering you a sad smile. “Never mind. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” she repeated. 

Anguish bloomed in your heart, but soon, the weight of your pleasure and the comfort of knowing the man you loved stood behind your door eased you into sleep.

~

The king was an older, practical man who did not busy himself with court drama, so it was not his presence that troubled you; tonight would be the public announcement of your engagement to Lord Caldwell, due to take place the week after the midsummer harvest celebration next month. 

Chambermaids arrived very early the next morning to bathe you in scalding water, scrubbing you raw and combing through your hair, drying and curling it meticulously until it sat on your head, pinned in place immaculately. You did not select your own gown; the black garment was a gift from Lord Caldwell, the fabric at your breast a sun yellow and the skirt dotted with golden spots, and a beaded headdress of strung pearls was placed on the crown of your head.

“Lovely,” one of them remarked after hours of tedious work, having to eat both breakfast and lunch as they worked your hair; you kept your promise to Pero by managing to indulge in some bread, cheese, and figs.

Turning to face the looking glass, part of you agreed. It was a lovely gown, and they did a fine job at managing your usually-simple braids. You thanked them all for their efforts, wishing you were to announce your engagement to Pero Tovar; a genuine beam from your lips is all that you lacked.

Your troubled heart stilled when Terrowin stood with Pero outside your rooms. You could not tell if he was taken with your ostentatious appearance, or overwhelmed by the circumstances; his eyes were wide with either horror or wonder, and you felt yourself pink.

“Move, girl,” Terrowin said in a clipped tone, and you realized you had been standing there for far too long.

The walk towards the great hall felt shorter than ever; how badly you wished to at least walk in the flourishing summer air, enticing you through the windows. You took your relative freedom at the convent for granted; in retrospect, you were nearly feral. More aware of your oppressive clothing than ever after Pero’s comment, you tensed, hoping the restrictions against your waist was what caused your shortness of breath. How right he had been all along, how foolish you had been to think this was all a game. Now, the irony of him leading you to the wolf’s den felt all the more cruel. Now, the Virgin mocked you from your pious heights. Try to defy me again, she leered from one of so many paintings; you felt her more vain than she ever led on; the obsession that surrounded her was sinful. You were not being nurtured, you were being sacrificed. For the good of what, your heart did not know. 

The vast castle, too grand for Spain’s own good sense, seemed cavernous. With each step you took, the path before you narrowed until it felt like you were crouching, the columns nothing more than stalagmites, teeth in the jaw of the beast sure to consume you.

Feasts were all alike; the same nobles, the same knights as always, and yet this time felt as if a veil had been pulled away from your eyes. Each time the horsehair bow was dragged over the cattlegut strings from the small minstrel, the room swelled with what felt more like murder than celebration, the merriness more akin to a dirge. Each breath you took felt labored, wine tasted poisonous as you congregated, both acutely aware of every sensation surrounding you and completely disassociated. Dinner was too long, an exhausting affair, and the socializing that followed promised to best it. 

Lady María stood proudly within a gaggle of other noblewomen, and youalmost felt a comradery towards her as she failed to disguise a look of boredom. When she caught your eye, she smiled.

She excused yourself from the small group and parted it; there was nothing small or demure about her gestures or body language, and despite your ominous words the week prior, your curious look in the gardens, you could not help admiring her. The room was a turbulent sea, waves of bodies threatening to drown you, and Lady María rode them effortlessly, ducking beneath them at the right moment to escape their foamy clutches. 

“My lady,” she said, offering an obligatory curtsy. You mirrored her, and she scoffed.

“I enjoy this bard,” she said lightly, nodding towards the music. “One of few whom I do not wish to cut the tongue from his throat.”

Chuckling, you felt slightly alleviated by the jest. 

“Are you faring any better now that some time has passed? I heard Alistar is preparing the east wing for you; you will be the first to take advantage of spring blooms there; perfect for painting.”

She smirked again, her lips curling above her glass as she took a sip of the spiced wine. It was impossible to tell if she was mocking you, or comforting you.

‘It all still feels rather - ”

“Rather surreal?” she offered, scanning over the crowd. “That never ebbs away, I’m afraid to admit. Wine helps,” she added, swirling the glass in your hand. “As do frequent walks in the garden.”

Her eyes hooded, and she closed your mouth quickly, not wanting to look as surprised as you felt. “Yes,” she said. “The castle is rather stifling at times.”

The crowd parted a bit, creating less of a gap between you and the gaggle of men a few paces down; Lord Caldwell, Lord Freula, and several other noblemen laughed raucously, and you suddenly wondered what any of them considered to be amusing. 

“How did Lord Caldwell’s wife die?” You asked, and your own mortality seemed to cloak you at the question, more present and vulnerable than ever.

“In childbirth,” she replied, taking another sip. “He was livid when the physician did not save the boy. He attempted to have him tried.”

“Before the king? Because his wife died in childbirth?” you asked incredulously. 

“He became obsessed; heirs are still all he speaks of. You’ll see,” she sighed, “he will want a son the moment you’re wed. And do not sulk over it; the children are the bright spots.”

Almost on cue, the voices of the noblemen grew loud enough for you to hear. 

“How many of those damned beasts do youkeep now, Caldwell?” one of them, a stout man with almost no hair, asked curiously.

“I lost a bitch a fortnight ago, so down to twelve. Pity, she was an excellent hunter; I can only hope the pups will have inherited her drive.”

“Apologies,” the stout man offered. “God tests you,” he said more loudly, “to take another from you like that!”

“Ah, we cannot question whom He wishes to take,” Lord Caldwell said regrettably, “and I believe He will bless me with a son in no time. Daughters,” he waved his hand, rolling his eyes as he drew in a breath, lowering his voice slightly, “will be dealt with. The girl’s father is a good man, but there will be a stronger presence of God. Women, painting; it isn’t proper…” he trailed off, cutting himself off with a sip of mead.

From across the room, you noticed your father’s guard gathered with the knights, and Pero stood, looking taller than usual as he seemed to be trying to curse Caldwell with his eyes alone.

“I have found the best physician in Europe,” Caldwell boasted, “all the way from England; he served the queen with all four of your deliveries.”

Pero’s nose was crinkled in rage, and you wished you could silence Caldwell for your lover’s sake; he seemed close to giving himself away and you could not discover why. Countless times he and your father spoke of you like a dog to be bred, and you and Pero were forced to listen.

“Oh, no,” Caldwell rang loudly, firmly pursing his lips, “he’s been given strict instructions to save the child at all costs, no matter what -”

Everything was muddled and slow - if only you had motioned to stop one of them, either of them, before Caldwell had spoken that insensitive phrase - and yet it happened so quickly, you felt more helpless than ever; Pero sprang across the room, his sword drawn and he pressed the edge of it against Lord Caldwell’s ivory throat.

The cacophony of many steel blades unsheathing themselves sounded at once, and every knight and guard in the room stood poised around the scene.

“What is this?” the king bellowed from his seat at the great table, “A hired mercenary threatening a guest? What in the heavens is going on?’

“What has possessed you?” your father shouted, frantically darting towards the table before the king. “Lord Fruela hired these men, they are of Spain, I had no idea -”

The king held an impatient hand up. “Drop your sword!” he shouted towards Pero.

Pero’s profile was dark from where you stood, his hawk-like nose more hooked than ever as shoved Caldwell back into the wall before tossing his sword to the ground towards the dining table.

“Explain yourself,” your father yelled. 

Every weapon in the room was pointed at Pero, who glanced around the room before turning back to Caldwell and spitting at his feet. 

“I love her,” he said loudly. He looked over his shoulder, and furious eyes found yours. “I love you.”

You made the smallest movement but stopped; Lady María gripped your forearm, and whispered, “No,” so quietly, you didn’t think she moved your lips to say it.

“Do you know this man?” your father screeched, marching towards the scene. “Are you - are you familiar with him?”

“She is not,” Pero said, “We have never spoken.” Pero dropped, kneeling before your father, who looked perplexed and outraged. “I ask for your hand in marriage.”

You expected the room to break out in laughter, but the hush that blanketed the room only heightened; the blood rushed through your ears, and María released your arm and held your hand, and you gripped it back tightly. 

“Is she pure?” Caldwell seethed, straightening his collar and standing upright again. “Has she been stained by this savage?”

“Of course she is!” your father countered, his rage more harsh than you had ever witnessed. “This is - this is madness. Take him away, get him out of my sight!”

“To the dungeons,” the king calmly ordered his knights. “We shall handle this on a later day. Carry on,” he waved to the musicians, and an awkward, off-key note broke through the silence as the crowd began to murmur.

You clenched your jaw so tightly, you thought your teeth might shatter as Pero was dragged away by the royal guard, not once turning to look back at you.


	7. Chapter 7

Solitude did not perturb Pero, and neither did the dark. It was the idleness he was subjected to within the constraints of his cell, one among many beneath the castle floors, that was driving him mad. Pero was not accustomed to doing nothing.

Pero Tovar was the son of farmers; there was a small flock of sheep to tend to - he held shears by the time his motor skills allowed him. There were chickens, but they hardly needed looking after. He and his sister would turn the chore into a game, finding the speckled brown ovals in beds of straw or mounds of wool too short to spin, sometimes still warm. There were vast rows of shallots and cabbage and carrots, and the expansive mind of a boy allotted him to pretend he was unearthing buried treasure far away. Eventually, routine blurred the lines between tediousness and imagination, but he quickly learned not to complain; there was nothing else to be done, and no one else to do it.

Isabela was a precocious thing; small and dark like he was, she was nearly five years younger and an eager pupil, learning to read by following along with him by the single dim candle they would burn long after the household was asleep. Their eldest brother Maurice was to be a priest or a monk and had access to several religious texts, and it was he who taught Pero to read and write. He brought the books home to distribute to his younger siblings with the hope they would find the true, Christian God, shedding their parent’s Muslim blood for good; instead, Pero only found joy in the language, the intricacies of Latin, the way the words rolled off his tongue. His mother eventually was able to trade a heap of spun wool for a delicate book of fiction from traders, a text which Pero and Isabela would devour, front to back, for years. Days spent with an arched, aching back bent weeding and thinning root crops were plowed through with the promise of their stories awaiting them by nightfall; another life, another realm.

An unseasonably-cold, damp winter brought disease and claimed their father; a reticent, stoic man who was too stubborn to stop working, too headstrong to stay in bed. Influenza took him swiftly, leaving behind their mother. She was a petite woman with a sunny disposition, the hands of a woman three times her age, and surprising strength for her stature; she always seemed impossible to defeat. Despite their father’s sternness and his quiet temper, their mother was the stone foundation of the household and everyone knew it. This unshakeable fact is what made her death, only seven weeks after her husband, all the more surreal to Pero.

Maurice would not set aside his zealous goals with his new position as head of the household; he would not trade his cross for a pitchfork. He came and went, occasionally scolding his younger siblings for their lack of enthusiasm regarding the God that requested their parents join Him so soon, leaving a twelve-year-old Pero and an eight-year-old Isabela to continue their work without them. Their books often sat beside a tall, unlit candle, their small bodies too exhausted to devote their night hours remaining awake. 

How Pero desperately attempted to channel their mother’s ability to laugh, to be so much light while still commanding attention and authority. Their father doted on his wife, never one to shy away from affections, seemingly incapable of embracing her each time she passed by him. Beyond this, he was by nature a serious man, void of expressions beside appearing very cross. No matter how harshly Pero berated himself when he caught glimpses in the reflections of windows, his brow would not unfurl, his lips would not break. Isabela inherited the light, the commendable effervescence that seemed to sprout from their mother’s grave and curl around Isabela’s heart.

Her mother’s grip around her was too tight; only two years after they buried their parents, Isabela fell ill. She fought hard against the fevers and the retching, even instructing Pero how to properly make clear broth from bones. After only a week, on a Sunday night, the ground claimed its right to her body and God her soul. The light emitted from their mother that clutched Isabel seemed satisfied when she was laid in the ground less than two days later; that is when it seemed to fade completely.

Maurice’s grief manifested the same as it did with their parents; his devotion to the church only intensified, and he told Pero he would be traveling to a monastery in England. 

“The farm is yours, if that is your wish,” Maurice had told Pero, months after his fourteenth birthday. 

It was not Pero’s, and it was not their parent’s - it never was. Their farm, soil nourished with blood and sweat, was leased ground; everything was owned by the monarchs. Pero would not die an indentured servant; he owed nothing to the king or the church or to Spain, he had given enough to them all.

It was then that he joined the mercenary company, selling his family’s sheep and few belongings of any value, earning enough coin to afford himself armor and a decent sword. His father’s temperament served him well, but his mother’s stature did not; he was the youngest of the company and by far the smallest. This resulted in ruthless taunts and goading from even the men, and his lack of experience fighting only left him with an angry stare.

After six months there, an older man by the name of Robert had bested him once again in a training match, leaving the company standing by to watch in fits of cruel laughter.

When all Pero could do was sneer, Robert laughed harder.

“What’s that, boy? Shit under your nose? You think you look mean?”

Pero remembered the way the muscles in his cheeks twitched and spasmed in fury as his face screwed up, snarling at the man, who tossed his sword to the ground. Pero thought he was surrendering, but Robert soon withdrew a small, sharper dagger from his belt.

Striding towards Pero, he gripped him by the chin and drew the dagger up by his shoulder, aiming for Pero’s face. “I’ll make you look mean.”

Within the dank cell, Pero brought the tips of his finger to the scar tissue, feeling every inch; he avoided the mark if he could, and it almost felt fresh. Pero had known women, prostitutes from Spain to England, and yet no one had ever touched it besides her. He had flinched when her stained thumb had grazed over it with reverence, and the only reason why he did not stop her as she marveled at it on that first night, that bold creature, was because of what she had said.

“Like a little crack of light,” she had mused, her smile genuine and true.

She who defied the God they both felt betrayed by, who found light on her own, or created it herself on stretched canvas. She who seemed to possess the same illumination he had buried so many years ago, walking free about the city unclipped and uncaged, brushing the earth from her stained gowns. How foolish he had been to endanger her; he wanted to blame the temper in his blood, he could not help it. His mother and Isabel’s light had been contained even when they breathed; dimmed by poverty and labor. His love had the chance to walk amongst the world beaming, and this castle and its rulers were the douter preparing to snuff her out. 

He did not regret not making his confession sooner; she would have not held back, she would have easily, happily given herself away, submitting herself to worse a fate than he faced. His outburst was uncharacteristic; he had been possessed at that moment, but her luminosity would not be tampered out, he could not allow it to see it buried. Perhaps it was best that he buried himself instead.

And now he sat in his own hell, caked walls underground while the nobles dined above him, plotting his fate as, for the first time in his life, he attempted to empty his mind and do nothing. 

~

After Pero was led away, the entire world before you seemed to dim, hazy and too loud as the crowd dispersed, pretending to carry on as usual.

Lady Maria dragged you towards Caldwell and your father, who continued to rage together in a corridor.

“Pardon the interruption, my lords,” she said curtly, “this has been quite traumatic, I fear; I highly recommend our lady retire for the evening.”

“You are entirely correct,” Caldwell cut it as your father opened his mouth to reply, “I will call tomorrow for a small council meeting to discuss this scandal and how it will be dealt with. This needs to be addressed before any further wedding plans are solidified.” His nostrils flared as he glared at the two of you, still clutching his unharmed neck where Pero’s sword had been.

Your father looked mortified, turning redder by the moment. “Of course; this will all be cleared by tomorrow afternoon. We mustn’t allow the delusions of one deranged mercenary to deter -”

“So this attack, this declaration, was born from derangement? Can that be confirmed?” 

“I have had the privilege of making her lady’s acquaintance since her arrival,” Lady Maria said, drawing herself up to her full height. “I can assure you that this man’s affections are unrequited. She is a woman of God.”

Despite his face still twisted with fury, Caldwell seemed to calm at these words. “Very well, then. We shall still hold a meeting tomorrow; I will call for her.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you said quietly, averting your eyes and bowing. 

“Yes, yes,” he said tersely, waving the two of you away. 

Lady Maria led the way, weaving you through the dark halls of the stone castle. Arriving at the feast felt stifling, and leaving it felt exposed, like the ceilings did not exist above you, the heavens dark and foreboding. It made you feel very small. 

She ushered you into your rooms, lighting candles and lamps before steering you towards your vanity to unpin your hair. “You have not spoken to that mercenary before, have you? Outside of ordinary commands?” she asked quickly, her thin fingers pulling out the pins with ease.

You met her eyes in the looking glass in front of you; she was not asking you, she was telling you. “No,” you said.

“And you are looking forward to marrying Alistar Caldwell,” she said firmly, picking up a silver brush from the table and brushing out your curls.

“Yes,” you said.

“And you will not speak to or speak of this mercenary again, for your own sake.”

Placing the brush back down, she unbuttoned the back of your dress, helping you out of it and flinging it over a chair, reaching for your chemise. You steadied your trembling chin, blinking back tears as you took it from her, pulling it over your head.

Maria held you firmly by the shoulders, looking at you with black eyes. “You will not speak of or seek the mercenary again.”

“I - I will not seek him again,” you whispered.

“For your own sake,” Maria repeated. Without another word, she released you, retreating back into the dark on the other side of your solid door.

You approached the bed and, without thinking, dragged the blanket and a pillow from the mattress, pulling it onto the rug. You cried, lying there on the floor - the closest you could get to Pero.

He loved you, as you loved him. And there would be no thatched roof, no modest table, no daughters named Isabela. There would only be Lord Caldwell and his hounds, and whatever pity or vengeance that would drive him towards Pero’s fate. An ambivalence that you would have to find from someplace very hollow within yourself would be paramount to his survival, and you would demonstrate it with every fiber of your being before Caldwell and his council. 

~

Sleep evaded you; you spent the hours between losing Pero and dawn trying to hear his voice in your head saying he loved you over and over again. The hollow place you would need to discover found you; your heart felt excavated. With your love forbidden and quiet, you at least held a secret to keep you afloat, you at least had the prospect of moments alone. 

What kept you afloat now was your emptiness - you floated like driftwood, dried and brittle with no roots or trees to claim you. If Lady Maria rode waves with expertise, you laid on your back, hoping they would carry you towards any shore with your mouth open, hoping the sea would fill you. Usually when your heart felt too empty or too heavy you could transfer it to paint, into sunrises or steeples, but even that had been taken from you. 

Terrowin stood outside your door the following morning, ready to escort you to your father’s chambers for the small council meeting. You were grateful he did not have unkind remarks to make regarding the scene from last night.

As you entered the large dining room within his quarters, you did not find a council at the long, dark stained walnut wooden table; your father, Caldwell, and the king’s bishop turned their heads towards you. There were no smiles, nor any sort of greeting.

“Sit,” your father instructed, indicating the chair at the far side of the table, on the opposite end from them.

“Yes, father.” Now was not the time to be defiant. 

Caldwell’s smile was tight and sour. “Now, my lady, before the bishop, tell us what you know of the mercenary that threatened my life last night on your behalf.”

“Tell us all you know, child. Truthfully,” the bishop said, the meek man more stern than you had ever seen him. 

Your eyebrows raised, and the shell you had become guided your words. “Terrowin assigned him to guard as needed. He once escorted me in the gardens,” you thought best not to hide this fact; it seemed as if Lady Maria was trying to help, but you were not sure she would fall on her own sword for you, “yet we have not spoken. I - his…outburst last night was not expected.”

“As I’ve said all along,” your father said to Caldwell, chuckling nervously as his forehead shined with perspiration. “If anything, this ought to prompt a marriage sooner rather than later; I would never call her handsome, but if she catches the eye of a mercenary -“

“Quite enough, my lord,” Caldwell held up a bony hand, and your father stopped talking, swallowing hard. “Lord Fruela and his wife are trusted allies; if she spoke well on your daughter’s behalf, I am inclined to trust her word. For she truly has nothing to gain by lying.” Caldwell’s grin widened across his pallade face, and he rubbed his fingers against his thumb, looking at you through narrowed eyes. 

“Though I must agree; there is no reason to wait until after the harvest feast next month. Perhaps the week before; I dare say you wish to return to your remaining daughters,” he told your father coldly. “And poor Fruela is riddled with guilt over his choice of mercenaries; the company has been contacted; even if he was not imprisoned, he would not be returning to them for employment.”

“I should hope not,” your father said, wobbling his head in an agreeing shake. 

“Are you certain you trust all your men?” Caldwell asked, an incline of his head tilting towards Terrowin at your side. “Is he a northerner?”

“Terrowin has been in my service nearly five years now,” your father said defensively, though the look he gave his favourite guard looked questioning. “But I shall keep watch a bit more closely after this madness.”

“You should not have to watch your own guard,” Caldwell pointed out, and he pushed himself away from the table, beginning to rise from his chair; he was ending the small meeting. “Find a trustworthy Englishman, if you ask me. A god-fearing Englishman.”

You glanced at Terrowin; his jaw tightened slightly, but he remained impassive. 

“Very well; escort her back to her rooms, Terrowin,” your father said, and he too rose from his chair, helping the old bishop from his seat. 

You bowed your head to no one, as Caldwell had already taken his leave and no one was watching you. 

“What will happen to that mercenary?” you asked Terrowin as you approached your rooms. “I cannot help but wonder the fate of a man who claims to love me.”

“You’re smart for not asking the council that,” he said gruffly. “Depends on your betrothed. He may rot down there, or he may be hanged. You don’t threaten a man like that.”

“No,” you breathed, reaching for the knob. “You do not.”

~

Time passed in a dreamlike state; all you could do was uphold your promises to Pero, so you took care of yourself. You ate as much as you could, you read, you walked in the gardens with a glowering Terrowin, who seemed more cross than ever. Each moment passed by like ghosts; Mass was always the hardest to endure. What sort of a God claimed to be so full of love just to punish the most purest form of it? You were fully prepared to burn; anything besides feeling nothing at all.

Four weeks before your arranged marriage to Caldwell was set to take place, he had convinced your father, Fruela, and the king himself to escort him on a hunt; they would be gone nearly a week. The queen was traveling with a large party as well, and the castle felt vacant; nearly all of the knights were gone, and Terrowin had formed the habit of sneaking off to the brothels by midnight, leaving your corridor deserted. 

Tonight felt like as good a chance as you would ever have; a few nights ago, you had managed to slip out of your rooms very late, after Terrowin’s departure, and snuck into the kitchens, swapping out a plain but well-made black cloak for a servant’s brown one, hoping the replacement would please whomever you were robbing. 

You saved your tray from dinner and brought it emptied, hoping you could manage to steal into the dungeons in disguise. With the king and queen gone, there was likely to be slack, and it would be your last chance to see Pero before another habeas was to take place in court. 

Your heart thrummed in your chest, jumping into your throat and remaining there as you journeyed downward. You occasionally saw guards in your peripheral but refused to look in their direction; if they paid you any mind, they did not show it. You felt safer by the time you reached the lower levels where the servants quarters were; there, you could easily blend in. 

There was no guard in front of the stairwell that you knew led to the dungeons; you made sure to make the best use of your time the night you switched cloaks, careful to find the route you needed to take so that you weren’t left wandering when you would go to Pero. Clutching the empty tray to your chest, you nearly stopped breathing, grateful for your soft slippers as you walked gingerly into the stairwell, hoping unseen eyes were not watching your descent. 

Beneath the servants cloak was the most modest dress you owned, a brown, simple thing that you hoped would not give you away as each baleful step you took, past sleeping bodies on wooden shelves barely off the cold, damp ground. You threaded your way through the unlit, cavernous tunnel, grasping at the wall beside you; your only light, the moon penetrating through a barred window at the end of the room. 

You had begun to think you had passed Pero’s cell, or thought worse; what if he had already been sentenced? Panicking, you walked more quickly to the end and breathed, a shaky whimper of a sound when you recognized his shape, curled into himself on a bench in the cell furthest away from the entrance.

“Pero?” you whispered, already in tears.

Shooting upright, Pero squinted in the darkness; you wondered what you must look like to him. A tattered cloak, illuminated by nothing but the blueness of the waxing moon, kneeling in front of his cell. 

“Cielo,” he whispered, clambering off the shelf and edging towards you on his knees. “Leave, you foolish girl, go -”

“I will, just,” you reached your arms through the iron bars, cupping his face, “please. This was my only chance.”

He reached up to touch your hands; he looked angry, but the moment his flesh touched yours, he softened, snarling to fight back tears of his own.

You pressed your face against the cold slats, and he drew closer to kiss you through the barrier. He smelled of blood and dirt and bodies; it reminded you of when he returned after the long winter without him. It was infuriating, finally having him within reach, but in such a partial manner; your body ached to feel his against yours, to bury your face against his neck as he held you. He was breathing very heavily now, and a strangled noise clawed its way through him as he fought to hide his emotion. 

“Have you been married?” he asked darkly, reaching through the bars to hold your face in his hands.

“No!” you cried softly, pressing your lips together in an attempt to silence your sobbing. “Not for another four weeks. Pero, I will not do it -”

“You will do what it takes to live,” he demanded. “Anything.”

You shook your head. “This is not living.”

He winced at your cutting words. 

“I love you,” you whispered. “I love you, I love you.”

“Now I can die,” he choked. “And you must go,” he told you. “Do not take the risk again.”

“What is going to happen?”

He looked you in the eyes, trying to master even breaths. Your mouths came together again, desperately trying to achieve passion and closeness as his mouth seemed to try to memorize yours. You whimpered helplessly against his lips, and you reached through to his hair, stroking him as softly as you could.

“I do not know. I know that I love you, and each moment with you was worth what lies ahead. I would still choose you, even a moment with you, if I knew this would be my fate,” he said.

“And when do I get to prove that sentiment?” you whispered hotly, new tears springing to your eyes. “Why must I be the pawn, watching everyone else move their pieces, while I am passed around with no say? With no chance to prove how much I love you?”

“Because the world needs your light,” he whispered. “Now go, before you are discovered. And cielo?” he held your face and you studied his scar like a deteriorating map, determined to remember the routes before it crumbled in your hands to dust, “I love you.”

What was left of your heart was abandoned in the dungeons. You trudged into the darkness, quietly passing the threshold, uncaring if guards now stood alert where they were absent when you arrived. You were almost disappointed when a pair of them down the hall in the opposite wing did not notice you; you felt passive in your love. 

Walking past the kitchens, you noticed your black cloak hanging where you left it; removing the brown one, you hung it there, electing to roam back to your rooms in nothing but your chemise, white and translucent like the ghoul you were.

You barely found it within you to care when Terrowin nearly lept in place as you appeared, back in the short period of time it took for you to complete your task.

“What on earth are you doing?” he hissed.

“I could not sleep,” you said evenly. “Just walking.”

“Stupid girl,” he muttered, opening your door stiffly.

After waking up rigid and aching, you had moved back to your bed after only a few nights on the floor. You knew sleep would not come for you, so you dropped into the chair in front of the fire, wishing the flames would consume you.

~

Pero took solace that there had been no whispers of the young noblewoman caught escaping from the dungeons in the days that followed, eventually being able to revel in the way her lips had felt against him, how they had looked in the cerulean beam of the moonlight as she had uttered those three words.

He could face the king’s decision with a clear mind, knowing it was all for something. He could join his mother and sister with a sliver of light in his heart, worthy of sharing earth with their radiance.

He waited patiently for his turn; a queue of prisoners and offenders being brought before the old monarch. Only one was sentenced for the rope; he had struck a neighbor dead in a drunken brawl over a ruined cabbage harvest. 

When Pero was finally the one to stand before the king, he kept his face neutral, hoping his father’s crossness did not overtake him too powerfully.

“This is the man from my engagement feast,” Caldwell, who sat to the left of the king, explained loudly. 

“Right,” the king said. He sounded rather bored, Pero thought, and he wondered if his lack of bloodlust might save him. “Over the girl?”

“Madness,” Caldwell said, “how can we trust he will not threaten another life over another innocent young woman? He is a savage.”

“It was a rather savage display,” the king agreed. “Yet no blood was drawn; send him to the dungeons again. He can live out his days there; I cannot imagine there will be many of them left.”

“If I might make a suggestion?”

Pero turned his head to the king’s right; the smaller man, the one who was always smiling, rocking on his heels, spoke up, holding a single finger in front of his face. Lord Fruela.

Holding his breath, he waited for the three men to deliver his fate.


	8. Chapter 8

The day Pero was meant to be sentenced passed by quietly, no word of his fate reaching your bloodied room. Small trials came and went, the business of no one important within the castle; lives of the peasants were never discussed within their walls, not unless it was a unifying statement, as if they were one mass entity. Not individuals who loved and breathed and bled. 

Pero threatened the life of one of the most elite men in Spain and his destiny ebbed away like he had been nothing more than a petty thief, simply because Lord Caldwell wanted two crucial things contained: his ego, and your interest. In order for you to learn of Pero’s sentence, you would have to ask; he held that power, and you refused to give it to him, no matter how badly your heart ached to know what had become of the man you loved.

You could not lie in bed all day, you could not refuse meals, especially public ones with your father and his company; you had to maintain the air that you were unaffected by Pero’s imprisonment. He did not save your life to have it thrown away.

Lady Maria lured you out of your rooms a week after you had last seen Pero; despite her fervent warnings, you could not contain your taciturn sulking. 

She sat in a large, cushioned chair in front of the open balcony doors, letting a single bare foot dangle in the beam of sunlight that penetrated through the plush curtains of silk and linen. 

Not looking up from her needlework, she gently bounced her foot. “I know what you want to ask me,” she said evenly. “Do it, before you burst.”

You held your own work in your lap, stabbing the tip of the needle into your thumb. “What have they done with the man?”

“The man,” she snorted, smiling grimly, still not looking at you. “He is gone.”

You did not believe you had anything left inside of your body, so when your heart sank down from your ribs to the pit of your withering belly, it startled you. “Gone?” you whispered, digging the needle so deep, a droplet of blood formed beneath the tip. 

“Gone,” she repeated, offering a rather dour expression. “It is time you left him in the past, where he belongs.”

Lady Maria tried to protect you and you knew it; surely you would have thrown yourself at him had she not held you back, and you would be gone by now, as well. Wherever that might be. Yet, in that moment, you envisioned an undeserving crown of light surrounding her head; the children, her sons, were the softness of her belly and the molding that filled the crack in her heart, the love for her husband false and bitter. If she could not run for her paramours - for she was so lovely and frighteningly beautiful, you found it impossible to believe there hadn’t been at least one - then neither would you. She was your savior and protector and she would not live vicariously through you; you would follow in her beaten path of obedience, seeking freedom in the form of trivial commands and heavenly rooms you could retreat into.

“Do not hate me; the effort will do your heart no good,” she said dryly, sucking in her cheeks as she furiously tugged on a snagged thread.

“I do not hate you, my lady,” you said meekly, holding your breath as you continued your work. 

“You hate us all,” she drawled, sighing in frustration, “and why should you not?”

~

Pero stared out at the wrathful sea, a darkened veridian green rising towards the leaden sky. Gripping the edge of the boat, thick, splintering wood pressing into his calloused fingers, he recalled everything that now laid between him and the infinite deep.

He thought of the fruit; how he already missed sweet, ripe flesh to tear into to, to devour and fill his blood with surges of energy and happiness that were so difficult to conjure alone. Soft apricots and cherries so red, they stained the teeth and left traces.

He thought of the busy market, ringing to life with boys chasing balls and fussing babies, mothers buying bread and eggs the color of fresh olives. His empty belly missed the smoked boar meat, hanging to cure, the thick flecks of salt preserving it with the promise of nourishment for weeks to come.

He thought of the looming, imposing architecture; the stone churches beautifully-disguised prisons. He missed the colors of the stained glass, the way the afternoon sun caught their gleaming and reflected onto the water in the fountain placed in the center of the square below. The ship and the sea were muted in comparison.

Pulling a stiff, fraying frame from inside of his breast pocket was the stretched canvas, revealing a palm-sized portrait of the most beautiful woman in Spain. How his lungs still managed to hold air was still unknown to him, considering he left his heart - the master of his insides - behind with her.

“You were the hardest to leave behind,” he murmured to the portrait, resentful that she had been so deft at capturing the exact likeness of her own gaze. 

~

Your wedding was a week away.

The town festival was boisterous and merry, and the entire display made you ill; it marked the anniversary of the day you spoke to Pero for the first time, that fateful night that would lead to either his exile or demise, which one you still did not know. ‘Gone,’ was such a vague word, offering no comfort or closure. In a fit of macabre desperation, you walked to the barracks in your sun-gold dress, edging past each erected spike, waiting to find Pero’s head mounted on one of them, the drone of flies drowning out the wail you imagined clawing its way from your belly.

If Pero Tovar was dead, you did not find evidence of it.

As you were not yet Lady Alistar Caldwell, you were under no obligation to attend the festivities planned for the evening. Your father still had another dress sent, a deep claret red, and you wished you could toss it onto the fire the moment you laid eyes on it, the poor chambermaids cowering as you stormed about your rooms when they told you your father expected you to be there. 

And so you attended, roaming the streets with Terrowin at your back and Lady Maria on your arm. Pero’s umbra was in every alcove, leaning against every pillar and glaring out at the crowd. Caldwell still avoided speaking to you outside of pleasantries, and you thought of not only a loveless marriage but a wordless one; a bond that did not grow on the banks of rivers, or in the cloak of darkness beneath your balcony, or in between nibbles of almond cakes and crumbs in your bed, rolling in them and kissing the man you loved. Pero seemed such a judicious man, but you knew him better than you knew anyone, and your throat seemed to clench and seal shut at the thought of the brief year you spent falling in love with him. 

At what felt like an hour you would have ordinarily deemed too early, it was Lord Caldwell that suggested you retire, your father giving him a hearty nod of agreement. 

Terrowin strode with you, that endless maze of a route back to your rooms, in utter silence. You hated him as much as you hated the rest; he likely knew what happened to Pero, and as you turned to face him once you reached your door, you considered asking him.

“Freshen as you see fit, my lady,” he started, “but Lord Caldwell has requested you join him in his rooms before the evening is over.”

“Tonight?” you asked shrilly. “Surely that is not appropriate; we are not married -”

“Just do it, girl,” he interrupted, and for a moment, you thought he might have been pleading with you. When you met his glassy blue eyes, they seemed trenchant, like he was trying to understand why you continued to disobey despite it all.

“I loved him, you know,” you declared, the words spilling out of your mouth like a babbling creek, incapable of remaining in one place. 

Terrowin face hardened, like your incendiary confession was a burden weighing him down. He went so long without speaking you began to panic.

“Make haste,” he finally said. “Do not keep him waiting.”

Deflating, you felt your shoulders slump, and your hand fell away from the doorknob. 

“Right,” you told him. “Show me to his chambers.”

When Caldwell’s pale figure formed in the crack in the door, you wished for a moment that Terrowin would follow you, as he had attempted when he first brought you to Lady Maria’s, but Caldwell dismissed him.

“That will be all,” he sniffed, and Terrowin nodded back, standing very still against the wall as Caldwell held open the door.

You held your breath as the strong scent of mead crowded your nose, and recoiled when a cold, ivory hand grasped your forearm 

“Follow me,” he dictated. “May I offer you wine?”

“No, thank you.” 

His hand unfurled before a rigid, tall chair in front of his fireplace, and you sat as he joined you in its twin.

“What a pleasure it is, to finally share your company without disturbance,” he divulged, his eyes clouded with drink. Steepling his fingers in front of his mouth, he took no care to conceal raking you over with his minatory gaze.

“I thank you for the invitation,” you said, far too nettled by his apparent inebriation to concern yourself with being overly-polite.

Caldwell may have been drunk, but not obtuse; he sneered, looking at you with disgust. “Such a cold girl,” he spat. “Your father warned me of your insolence, and your unfortunate behavior is not unwarranted; he is to blame for letting you roam about Spain unsupervised and unmarried for nearly a year like a feral dog. These sorts of things can be mitigated. I will not, however, tolerate disdain from an ingrate.”

Now you were truly afraid. You clutched at the brass brooch sinched at your waist, and you hated Caldwell, you hated your father, and Terrowin, and even Pero for their swords that dangled at their waists, suspended like a fifth limb they took for granted. You were left with nothing but silks and buttons and pins in your defense, and hating Pero was fruitless, for he was nothing but gone.

When Caldwell stood abruptly, staggering towards your chair, you rose as well, backing against the nearest wall as he crowded you.

“I am doing your father a great service by marrying you,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “especially after that incident with the mercenary. I am not stupid, girl,” you shrieked when he reached for your waist, squeezing your ribs, “that savage knew you quite well, I am sure of it. You’re nothing more than a common whore -”

“Lord Caldwell!” you cried, and you began to wrestle away from him, but the more you struggled beneath his grip around you, the tighter his fingers dug into you. “Enough, you are drunk -”

The sting of his backhanded slap burned across your cheek, his usually tidy hair spilling front of your face as he seethed, breathing heavily. With one hand, your palm fell to the front of your waist, holding yourself there as he raged. “You, child, need to be broken; I intend to work you into a suitable wife at once -”

The blunt point of your brooch punctured the white skin between his shoulder and neck, and he stumbled backward, mouth agape in shock as he held a hand to the bleeding wound. Your trembling hand gripped your ornament, arm still poised in mid-air, and you began to cry when he only laughed.

“You bitch,” he fumed, and your arms defensively shot upwards, shielding your face from the blow you waited for as your brooch clattered to the floor.

It did not come.

Grunting, the clash of armor, and a choking spurt sounded, and when you lowered your arms, Terrowin stood before you, his sword speared into Caldwell’s back.

Caldwell sunk to his knees, eyes wide, the whites of them glowing in the darkness. As Terrowin pulled his weapon back, he raised his boot and turned Caldwell over by his shoulders, kicking him to the ground.

“You,” Caldwell wheezed, and without another sound, he went limp, a small trickle of blood spilling from his open mouth.

“Terrowin,” you breathed, “why -”

“We must leave,” he said, his voice hushed and friable. 

Nodding, you glanced down at Caldwell for the last time, stepping over him and taking Terrowin’s hand.


	9. Chapter 9

Still clutching your hand, you and Terrowin threaded your way through the dark corridors until you reached your rooms.

“We must leave; we have to go. Change, preferably into something simple - plain. Hurry,” Terrowin instructed, his red hair matching his ruddy cheeks. 

Your hands flew to your shoulders, reaching towards your back. “My dress,” you said in a trembling voice, “I cannot -”

“If I may-” Terrowin began, making a motion and edging towards you before he hesitated, freezing in place.

“Just tear it,” you instructed, turning away from him and craning your neck back towards him. “Do it, I do not care.”

Swallowing, he rushed towards you and gripped the back seam where the intricate buttons met. “Forgive me,” he said, and with one swift tug, the opulent gown split down the back. 

Stepping away and averting his eyes, Terrowin began to speak with careful breviloquence. “Caldwell does not - did not - have his own guard, he relied on the king’s knights. Until someone calls for him, we are safe. We must avoid the main road, and we must avoid the summer feast. Bring a cloak, and get rid of any evidence of Tovar you have.”

Nodding vigorously, you spun around and stole into your rooms, leaving the door ajar. Pulling the dress from your shoulders, you shrugged it from your frame, stepping out of the dark red fabric that pooled at your feet, freeing yourself from the woven contraption. Even as you gingerly pried it open, your bureau creaked, and despite the emptiness of the castle, the tension was palpable; you winced at the sound and let it swing open, revealing your wardrobe. Reaching for a simple wool dress, a muted grey, you slipped it over your head before plucking out a cloak.

Pulling the hood up, you glanced at your reflection in the looking glass. It was then that you noticed the blotch of blood on the side of one palm, the one you had held the brooch with. Striding towards your water basin, you rinsed the crimson stain away, turning the water red. You were determined to leave the cursed shade behind; any blood you encountered beyond these walls would be for Pero; whether it be from your broken heart, the lack of it as you hung from a rope, or between your legs, fused with his seed, bearing his children.

You hurried over to the bed, too big for just one body, and fished beneath the pillows for the note Pero wrote you all those weeks ago. Following Terrowin’s caution, you read it over for the last time before tossing into the smoldering fire; you were determined to find him and hear him say the words aloud.

Closing the door behind you, Terrowin glanced down each end of the corridor before giving you a curt nod. Hands clasping together once more, he dashed towards the east wing, you keeping up at his side.

~

“Where are we going?”

“Quiet,” he snapped, pulling you through the abandoned gardens. He had snuck the two of you down towards the servant’s quarters, through an exit used only by them. Nearly everyone was gone; only a few guards standing idly around corners too far in the distance to pay either of you any mind.

You trudged through the darkness, the high yew shrubs casting tall shadows, blocking out the beam from the nearly-full moon. After what felt like an eternity, Terrowin stopped at a wall and felt through climbing ivy with his bare hand; with a click, he took a relieved sigh.

“Follow me.”

Pulling you through the door in the wall, obscured by the creeping vegetation, he shut it behind him and the pair of you charged across the moor behind the castle walls, not stopping until you reached the edge of a cork oak forest. Skirting along the seams, you followed him over roots and twigs, blocking the sight of Caldwell’s figure on the floor of his rooms from your mind. 

When your movements slowed to a steady walk, you finally spoke.

“Why did you do it?” you whispered. 

Terrowin did not immediately reply, only huffing out a breath as he helped you over the rocky floor of the terrain. You hoisted your skirts up, glimpsing at your feet as best you could in the dusky night.

“I was instructed to protect you, my lady,” he said. “I was doing my duty.”

You let this sink in, a swell of appreciation filling your chest. “You do not need to call me that anymore.”

He said your name, evenly and decided. 

“Thank you, Terrowin.”

Growing in the distance was a village; you had left the castle grounds and approached the farms that were the backbone of the realm, little huts peppered against the yellowing foothills. Mountains laid in the east, and though it felt darker closer to the coast, here a thin strip of purple still streaked just below the base of their peaks as the sun set opposite them. The milky orb of the moon sat nestled between the ridges, and Terrowin turned his gaze away from it to look at you.

“I know of a place we can stop for a moment, but you must be silent. I promise to explain more when we arrive.”

“Alright,” you agreed, and the two of you made your descent towards the small village, where Pero lived before he was taken away. Gone.

The village was quiet, and Terrowin held your hand firmly as you steadily weaved through the little structures. You assumed Terrowin wanted you to look unsuspecting; surely bolting around would draw attention. Terrowin had shed his armor before you left the woods, stashing it under the prickling foliage of juniper shrubs, so the two of you looked like an ordinary man and woman, returning home from the town festival.

On the outskirts of the village, he led you towards a small, unlit hut, ushering you inside and closing the door. You stood in the doorway as he moved about in the darkness, fumbling around as the distinct sound of a flint rang out, striking finally, and a small candle illuminated the room.

Terrowin set it on a small, circular table in the center of the hut, and you took in the building; a dirt floor, a small bed of straw against the west corner beside a window, and a stone hearth small enough to sit within against the east. Little shelves were crafted against the wall near the fireplace, and you noticed piles of cut wood on the ground held in place by an iron rack. 

“Where are we?” you asked.

“This was Pero’s home.” 

You hit a wall of emotion, your chest tightening as you felt closer to Pero than you had in a very long time. The space felt more lovely and endearing than it had moments before, and anguished pain boiled inside of you at the memory of him deeming the house not worthy enough for you; you felt more at home and at peace there, even without him, than you had anywhere else since arriving in Spain.

A large trunk sat at the base of his bed, and you sat on it, your fingers ghosting over the wool blanket still unmade on the little cot.

“How do you know this?”

Taking a deep breath, Terrowin finally seemed to relax. “The king would not have Tovar hanged; he did not spill blood, and he has made strong efforts to satiate the masses by being more benevolent than his predecessor. He sentenced Tovar to life imprisonment.

“Lord Fruela suggested he be exiled; he told the king and Caldwell that he did not ‘deserve to be buried in Spain soils,’” he scoffed. “And the evening before he was meant to be moved to the port, Lady Fruela came to me.”

Your lips parted, and you leaned forward on the trunk. “What?”

“She paid me a handsome sum to tell the guards that your father ordered me to escort Tovar; she is why he was able to escape. I brought him here; he requested that we stop so that he could collect a few things before departing. He had a rather large pouch of coin saved in that trunk,” he indicated with a tick of his head towards the trunk beneath you, and you looked down at it. “We spent almost an entire night journeying for a port north of here. He boarded, turned down the fee that Lady Fruela offered, and was gone. That was nearly three weeks ago.”

Lady Maria had been helping you, more than she could ever say. “She trusted you?”

Even in the dim light of the candles, Terrowin turned a violent shade of pink. “She was…very careful. She took efforts to make sure of my motives before assigning me to it.”

Your eyes widened in embarrassment. “And what are your motives? Why did you help?”

“Because I like Tovar,” he shrugged. “He did not confide in me about -” he paused, rolling the flint in his hands between his legs, “about you. But I respected him; he is a good man. And this ordeal has made me question where my loyalties lie. I did not plan to remain in service to your father after we left Spain.”

You were certain Terowin was referencing the ill-treatment from your father; he had been a loyal guard, only to be treated like a liability. You supposed that is what created disloyalty. Your greatest curiosity still had not been addressed.

“Where is Pero?” you prodded.

Finally, his head snapped up and he looked at you. “He was sent to the land of the heathens,” Terrowin said, “Northern Norway.”

You nodded slowly, trying your best to absorb everything he told you. “And what will we do now?”

“I will help you find him,” he vowed, his ginger hair like fire within the darkness.

Your lip trembled, eyes brewing hot tears as you smiled at Terrowin. When he looked away, you slid off the trunk, sinking onto your knees as you lifted the hatches with your thumbs, prying the lid open. Peering inside, you reached inside, letting your fingers trace over a coarse-weave shirt of brown wool. Dragging it out, you buried your face in it; inhaling deeply, it smelled of him, and your throat burned. In the darkness, you could almost feel yourself being pulled against Pero’s chest. Pulling the garment over your head, you rose and dropped onto the bed, curling up against his pillow.

“Rest for a moment, my lady,” Terrowin said, likely out of habit. “Then we must leave for the port.”

~

You slept, for how long you did not know; it had been weeks since you slept soundly, and with the hope of finding Pero, nestled in his bed that still smelled of him and away from the castle, you managed to drift for some time until you felt Terrowin’s hand on your shoulder.

When he spoke, he used your name. “It is time to head north.” 

He had gone to fetch his stowed armor, holding a cumbersome sack over his shoulder, and he smiled apologetically. Rubbing your eyes, you threw your cloak over your shoulders, leaving on Pero’s shirt, and prepared to leave.

At Terrowin’s suggestion, you rummaged through Pero’s trunk one last time in search of a satchel; you found a sack and managed to bring with you some preserves on the shelves, and a small girls dress you found at the bottom of the trunk. You knew it was Isabela’s, and though it felt like a violation of sorts, you could not leave it behind. If - no, when - you found Pero, he would want it.

It was very dark out now; the village hushed, and Terrowin led the way once more. Through the fields of tomato plants you dashed, soon deviating from the rows and making for another sparse forest.

Your journey would have been far more perilous had it not been for the moon, and you thanked her from beneath the ash leaves above you. 

“How did you know of this route?” you asked Terrowin at one point, for you seemed to be on a path of sorts; narrow and winding as it was, it still served as a clear trail, void of obstructions.

“Tovar led the way,” he recalled, his breath slightly shorter as you mounted an incline. “He knew of the port Lady Maria directed us to.”

“And you trusted him?”

Terrowin halted in place and spun his upper body towards you, looking down from the little boulder he stood upon. “Why would I have been concerned with deception? He was being helped,” he insisted. “The choice of trust was not an option. He had more reason not to trust me.”

Following astutely, you held your skirts with one hand, reaching for a pole-sized beech tree to help push yourself forward. “If he did not then, he certainly will now,” you told him.

~

Your eyes began to ache with fatigue as the world turned into a faint cornflower blue, light growing as you walked along the bank. You had ventured out of the woods and into the reeds of the bay, and your body slumped with premature repose when the port appeared in the distance.

“Almost there,” Terrowin said, not stopping to face you.

Terrowin did the talking; approaching a small ship being loaded with wooden boxes and crates, he seemed to be negotiating with the captain. When Terrowin mentioned Maria Fruela, the captain smiled, accepted the coins in a gloved hand, and stepped aside for you to board.

“It’s not lavish,” a crew member offered as he led the two of you below the deck, “but it won’t be crowded.”

Several bunks lined the dark quarters, offering no semblance of privacy, but one look at the beds and your knees buckled. 

You and Terrowin only nodded at one another before selecting your respective bunks, and as you thumbed Pero’s sweater, you drifted into dreams as the ship above was cast into the Bay of Biscay.

~

You prided yourself on how quickly you acclimated to life at sea. 

Your last experience onboard a ship was a far more extravagant experience, and yet you were so overjoyed to be free of your father’s clutches and the daunting threat of marrying Caldwell, you never found it within yourself to complain, even internally. It was rank and dark, and you slept as often as you could, but for the first time in your entire life, no one expected anything from you. You laughed, you drank ale and spoke with whomever you wished, feeling the comfort of having Terrowin as your traveling companion. You could stare out at the sea, watching the sun set and rise, making sure to remember the shades and tones so that you could perhaps recapture the images onto canvas one day. Food and water were sparse and you sometimes fought headaches, but with no duties or expectations to entertain, you could easily dismiss yourself and rest. 

With turbulent weather ten days into your journey, it had almost been three and a half weeks since you departed Spain when the captain announced you would be shoreside in a day’s time. You spent most of the following morning peering over the deck, watching the foreign land come into view. Trees taller than you could have ever imagined appeared through the fog, green and narrowing at the top like sharp points. Although the sun remained hidden behind a thick plume of clouds, the lush landscape filled your heart with excitement.

You felt filthy and restless by the time you queued in line to disembark, Terrowin at your back, and the anticipation felt more suffocating than the ship ever had. 

The voices you heard were strange; an unfamiliar language filled your mind, and you marveled at your surroundings. Norway was abundant with vegetation, fertile and mountainous. As Terrowin guided you through the busy market, you caught yourself looking for Pero.

“Do you know where to begin looking?” you asked Terrowin.

“No,” he confessed. “Let us stock on supplies. We can ask merchants.”

Handing you a small pouch, he insisted you took it when you tried to give it back. “This was meant to be for Tovar,” he told you, “From Lady Fruela. He refused it, and you need it.”

He was right; you had nothing to your name. 

The two of you roamed the market; you bought a simple dress to alternate with your worn one, smoked meats wrapped in wax paper, cheeses, and dried fish and stored it in a new small hip satchel. 

“Any word?” 

To your surprise, Terrowin’s eyebrows rose. “Another captain there,” he pointed towards one of the docks, “said he remembers a Spaniard from a few weeks back. Thinks he went north; there’s a smaller farming village.”

Your face lit up, and you stood taller. “That’s wonderful. It must be him, would you agree?”

Frowning, Terrowin nodded solemnly. “It will take at least a week to journey there on foot. Are you prepared, my lady?”

You laughed. “More than you know,” you replied, looking towards the mountains beyond the bustling crowd.

~

Never in your life had you ever walked so much at once. Terrowin had the mind to suggest pouches for water before you left, and the following days were spent rationing what you had between stopping in tiny villages in between. You were able to travel on a main road for most of the journey, but elected to find massive fir trees to sleep beneath by nightfall. Though not always cool enough to warrant a fire, it was nowhere near as warm as Spain, and you were grateful for Pero’s shirt beneath your cloak. You took turns bathing in frigid lakes, and hated the flat shoes you left in as you walked on aching feet, envious of Terrowin’s stiff boots. 

Terrowin was far more loquacious in character than you would have imagined; you both went long periods of time without speaking, trudging along in silence, but other times he told tales of Éire, where he was raised. The youngest of seven brothers, he had entertaining anecdotes on the experience, and it warmed you to him even more. Yet you often found yourself tired and frustrated, feeling as if your search would never end. You thought of Lord Caldwell being discovered, perhaps after your absence was noticed. Surely you and Terrowin were the obvious suspects, considering you were gone. You thought of your father; would he be expected to answer for your crimes? And what would your poor mother think? Besides the possibility of not finding Pero, what weighed heaviest on your heart was the realization that you may never speak to your sisters again; you certainly would not see them. Leaving Spain made you feel like a serpent shedding skin, leaving behind only the shell you once were. 

It was far longer than a week since you landed on Norway’s shores; ten days, and it had been nearly three months since you stole into the dungeons, seeing Pero for the last time. You were beginning to feel riddled with impatience when you finally happened on a larger village on the edge of a massive lake. 

“We shall stop here to ask for water, and see if anyone has seen Tovar,” Terrowin suggested, lumbering down the road as little huts appeared in the distance. 

Nodding and forcing a smile, you followed, adjusting the sack on your shoulders.

You’d given up peering over shoulders for Pero in each village you passed through, so you kept your head down as Terrowin spoke in the native tongue to the merchants.

You could not understand what they said, but your heart stopped as their conversation became more animated, Terrowin letting out a triumphant guffaw at one point.

Turning towards you, blood seemed to drain from your head. “He’s here,” he breathed excitedly. “Just a couple of hours walk up there.” Terrowin pointed towards a small mountain peak behind the village. 

If you felt impatient lately, it was insignificant compared to the surge of urgency that overcame you; you led the way as the merchant pointed towards the road, pushing past villagers as you nearly ran, unconcerned with collecting more food or drink. You hardly spoke as you made your way up switchbacks and steep terrain, you hardly noticed the burn of your legs as you made your ascent. You did not notice the sun gradually falling behind the boreal forests, but you did see the little hut beyond the trees, nestled into a little meadow with a wooden fence. Your heart stammered as you watched the dark-featured man working the grown with a rake, turning it over with his back to the strange visitors from the north approached his new home. 

Terrowin called your name from behind you. “I must leave you; there is lodging back in the village,” he said, giving you a sympathetic smile. “I will not be far.”

Looking over your shoulder, you watched as Pero worked in his garden, completely unaware. You were home.

You flung yourself into Terrowin’s arms, embracing him. “Thank you,” you whispered as tears pooled in your eyes. 

When he released you, he stepped back. “Tell him I say hello,” he smiled. 

Nodding, you gave his hands one final squeeze before he started down the road in the other direction, leaving you to go to Pero alone.

How far you had come to reach this point, and these final steps left you feeling awkward; nervous, like he was a stranger to you. He did not cease his work when you approached the fence, made of thin poles of tree branches. 

“Pero.” 

You pushed his name from your throat; you had uttered it in Terrowin’s presence so many times; you could not understand why it felt so difficult to say. Once, an entire way of life stood between you and the man you loved, and now, you pressed your weight against the little gate that separated you as your body tensed, waiting for him to slowly turn around. 

He kept him back turned for a moment, perhaps gathering the will to face the voice he likely recognized. Upon seeing him, he looked disgruntled, ready to face the taunt of what surely must have been a mistake, for the voice most certainly sounded like his cielo, but could not possibly be her.

Immediately, his breathing became ragged. “How?” he choked, almost collapsing against the fence as he unfastened the lock; you stepped back as he flung it open before dropping onto his knees. 

You beamed at him through your tears, running your fingers through his hair. He was golden at that moment, the sun blessing him with its last hour of radiance as he enveloped you around the middle.

“It is not possible,” he cried. “I never thought I would be permitted to heaven. Yet, here you are.”

Pulling him to his feet, you cupped his face in your hands. Without the obstructions of iron bars, or domineering men, or a wrathful god. Instead, you stood before Pero, with nothing but pure sky above you, streaked with pinks and blazing oranges. This moment, you would never be so bold as to try to recapture on canvas - no paint could do it justice - yet you soaked it in all the same as Pero kissed you, like it was both the first and last time he ever would.


	10. Chapter 10

Reaching into the earthen bowl, you pinched enough flour out to dust your wooden surface, readying your dough to be kneaded. You heard Pero enter the cottage but did not turn to greet him; you were too focused on your work, and you wanted to get it right.

Pero stalked up to you from behind, his arms wrapping around your hips as his nose buried into your neck, his hands gliding over the swell of your belly.

“I would offer help, but -” he splayed his hands out in front of you, exposing their blackness from the soil outside in the gardens.

“I have this last step before it needs to rise,” you sang. “It will be perfect.”

“I know,” Pero replied, kissing your cheek before reaching for the pitcher of water beyond your work station.

Upon your arrival, word of the woman who’d traveled such a way to reach the strange Spaniard spread throughout the village. The man had appeared months earlier, taking small jobs in exchange for lodging, until someone suggested the Kristiansen cottage; Olsen had been old and unmarried when he passed over the winter, his homestead sitting vacant since spring. Pero had given his brother what coin he had - the currency would be worth something when he next traveled to one of the larger villages, when traders came - and settled in as quickly as possible, remaining a reclusive mystery to the townsfolk. 

A week after you were reunited with Pero, a handful of women rapped on the cottage door, bearing gifts. One of them spoke your tongue, and as broken as the language barrier was, it was enough. They brought a wooden crate full of chicks; just old enough that they had begun to sprout feathers from beneath their yellow, infantile down, dozens of seedlings, their roots wrapped in damp cloths to prevent wilting, and the last, a spritely woman named Kára as young as your sisters, wore a woven basket on her back full of furs, dresses, and breeches. 

“You came empty-handed,” the woman named Birgid said slowly, when you felt so overwhelmed by gratitude, you attempted to turn down the sweet gestures. “Take it.”

You hung your head in shame when they discovered you did not know how to bake bread, let alone milk the goat they offered to bring when the rains died down and the slopes would not be so muddy. The women set to work, taking over your little home teaching you a simple recipe while Pero planted the seedlings into the ground, too inundated with concoctions of pride and regard to verbally express it beyond a curt, ‘thank you’; instead, he showed his appreciation by putting their offers to good use, setting the chicks in the dusty coop before rolling his sleeves up in his freshly-tilled ground. 

As your arms began to burn with that familiar sensation, working the dough against the table Pero made, you thought back to your first evening back with Pero.

You felt shame casting from him as he guided you into the cottage, standing diffidently against the wall as you peered around. The walls were wooden and bright, and though it was not large, the ceilings were high and timber-framed, allowing small beams of light to create illumination from above. There were separate rooms divided by lined wooden poles; the entrance revealed a kitchen space with a wide hearth and a table, barrels lining the walls, likely with grains inside. Pero remained in place as you peered about, discovering his bed; it was larger than the one in his hut in Spain, and your tired bones begged you to pitch yourself onto it, dragging him with you.

When you felt him come up from behind you, you turned to face him. He would not meet your gaze as his jaw set tightly.

“I know this is not what -”

“I love it,” you interrupted, “I love you.”

“I thought I would never see you again,” he confessed gruffly. “How?’

You shrugged your dress off, grateful for the brumal stream you bathed in earlier that morning as your skin felt cleaner than it had in days. When you pressed your nakedness against him, twining your body around his, the softness was welcome; there was no armor betwixt you, and though his hands were more calloused than you had ever felt them, they found your body timidly. The tips of his fingers traced over your collarbones lightly, as if you were nothing but a vision, and if he pushed too harshly, you would vanish. His eyes were testing, suggesting that he would not be fooled; if his mind was tricking him, conjuring an illusion so honest and accurate, then surely he had finally gone mad with grief. 

Sensing his caution, you placed a trembling kiss to his mouth, and his body finally granted him permission to fold to you. 

Like a familiar dance, you led one another onto the bed, your mouths joined and feet moving together. He undressed slowly above you as you lied against the inviting cushion; it seemed to mold against your body, like it had been waiting for you, and gingerly he pried your thighs open to lay between them. When he lowered his face into the slopes of your breasts, he began to weep. 

His tears shook you and you froze for a moment; when your own emotion met his, you wrapped your tired but stronger arms around his head. You allowed him to burrow against you in disbelief, making sure that every inch of you was flesh and blood and bone here in Norway and not in the far reaches of a too-vivid dream. 

He had hardly regained himself when he emerged from the planes of your curves, and he lumbered towards your mouth with his. The world was hushed and still as he took himself in his hand, easing inside of you. Your coinciding tears were muffled as you kissed and you held each other, and you sighed as he sheathed himself to your hilt. To be filled by him, to have his hot skin flush against yours when you thought him cold and dead, did not nurture impure desires as he once did; in this moment, you felt nothing but bliss, relief so consuming and acute, you could hardly breathe. 

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice strained with charged emotion.

‘I am not tender;’ he once warned you; his threat from what felt like so long ago rang in your mind. No, perhaps Pero Tovar was not a tender man once, but as his solid hands - capable of so much brutality and death - held your face, his lips full of blood and longing parting as he spoke the words before crashing against yours, his touch could not be described as anything else. 

After he finished, moving languidly, reveling in your warmth, he moved and brought his mouth to your heat and lapped at you until your body throbbed with the promise of release. His tongue rolled with the same precision, encircling your sensitive bud, and your core coiled before you twitched and unfurled beneath him, crying out like you never could.

He clawed his way up your worn figure as his hips converged with yours again, and his arms dug through linens and furs to reach around your back and cage your body with his. 

“How did you escape?” he breathed, searching your face.

A lazy finger caressed his temple, dragging away his damped hair. “Do you remember the brass brooch I wore? I often kept it on my cloak; it snagged my hair once, when we were leaving the river, and you had to untwine it?”

“Yes,” he said impatiently, wondering why the first sentence of significance you uttered was about an accessory as his brows pulled together. “What about it?”

You smiled slyly and wriggled against your pillow. “Lie down beside me, and I shall tell you everything.”

That had been over a year ago.

Your days were filled with labor - there was wood to split and stack before winter, and you slowly acquired more livestock as the summer went on, goats, pigs, and even more chicks. Your gifted seedling grew and bore fruit, and you planted more, digging up roots and trimming waxy greens that endured even dustings of snow once the colder winds arrived. Your body was tired at first, but it grew stronger, and your heart was full. 

Terrowin brought parchment from traders, and you sketched your lover’s eyes with charcoal, wrote sonnets and poems, crushed fruit into egg whites and adorned slabs of wood and hides and your front door with all the beauty you wished for.

A pagan man in the village performed your handfasting ceremony the following autumn, weeks after the villagers celebrated their Lughnasadh harvest, and it felt so much more joyous and intimate than any other union you had witnessed. Pero’s face had been set with fierceness, as it always was, but you noticed the way his lips pursed into a smile as you spoke the vows. You saved the red ribbon that had been woven between your hands in a cedar trunk Terrowin had crafted as a wedding gift. He and Kára were married only six weeks after you were, their own union almost eclipsed by the Samhain celebration, but happy all the same. 

Winter was brutal and cold, and you stay inside often, only occasionally plowing through the snow to visit the village once every other week or so to dine with Terrowin and Kára, or to purchase more salt in exchange for bread that you had mastered making. And yet it was the warmest winter you had ever met, with Pero keeping your fires blazing in the hearth and in your bed. 

By the solstice, your breasts swelled and ached, and you were nearly asleep only minutes after supper. Your first babe would come in the summer, and Pero stroked your growing belly each night, cupping it as his head rested and listened, telling tales and adorations to you both while winter storms raged beyond your cottage. Despite the howling winds and snow so deep that it felt cavernous when you shoveled it away, neither of you could have ever assumed such harshness whipped through your homestead from the warmth of your bed, for it was summer in your mind. 

You worked your bread, sticky and sweet, to distract yourself from the piercing jolts of pressure belting around your middle coming in waves. 

The midwives in the village had prepared you to expect perhaps days of the sensation, so you would wait until they came more frequently before telling Pero.

By the time your bread had risen so high that it spilled over the brim of the buttered bowl, sticking to the linen rag hanging over it, Pero had long since stormed for town, slinging curses in his wake; you still thought it was too soon to invite the women up, but Pero would take no chances.

The house smelled of sweet yeast by the time Pero led the midwives up, two women of fifty women with hair so yellow, it looked white, and Kára, who was carrying hers and Terrowin’s first child, due to come with the equinox. 

You were grateful for the women, and for Kára’s lively spirit, and Pero’s broad hands that held your hips from behind, squeezing each time a wave crashed into you. Their herbs and teas floated past you; time did not exist, but they all beamed by the time they handed you your daughter, Isabela. The sun was rising, and you laid back against your husband as you sat between his legs. Kára sauntered towards the three of you, your bread from the night before slathered with currant jam you’d preserved last summer. 

“Strong girl,” Pero murmured into your ear as a gentle hand brushed over Isabela’s cheek. “I am so proud of you.”

“A quick first,” one of the midwives praised as she cleaned up the bloody sheets from the floor. “We’ll have to pitch a camp in the yard to make it in time for your next one.”

“Isabela?” the other asked, “that babe is of Norway. Give her a Norse name.”

You smiled at the baby in your arms, silent, and pink with a thatch of dark hair. “Not this one,” you whispered. “This one I dreamt of in Spain.”


End file.
